Uncle Luke
by dinacarter
Summary: Kitty volunteers to help Doc take two recently orphaned children to their relatives' homestead near Dodge. Unfortunately, things don't go quite as planned and trouble finds them soon in the form of Dan Biggs, a vengeful outlaw in search of Matt.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Not mine. Not making any money off of it. Etc., etc., etc. All the marbles belong to PARAMOUNT/ VIACOM, so please don't sue me-you won't be making any money off of me either. _

_Summary: Kitty volunteers to help Doc take two recently orphaned children to their relative's homestead near Dodge. Unfortunately, things don't go quite as planned and trouble finds them soon in the form of Dan Biggs, a vengeful outlaw who is on his way to Dodge in search of Matt. Forced into a deadly game in order to save his friend's lives, the Marshal soon finds himself fighting for his own. _

_Rating: T for some adult language and situations. _

_x_

x

**Chapter One**

x

"You know, Matt," said Doc Adams as he ceased twisting the toothpick between his teeth just long enough to point with it at the Marshal, "seems to me, you might have to get yourself a second job just so you can keep your first one."

It was early afternoon and the town doctor and the Marshal had just finished having a late lunch at Delmonico's with Kitty and Chester.

"Yeah, it sure's startin' to look that way," the tall lawman replied glumly as he held the door for Kitty to step out onto the boardwalk.

For the last three weeks, he had been waiting in vain for his monthly paycheck from the War Department in Washington. A delay in itself was nothing unusual, but never before had it taken that long and he was definitely beginning to feel the pinch by now.

Kitty paused inside the doorway and tilted her head to look up at him.

"Hmm," she mused slyly as she touched a finger to her lips, "I'd give you a job--"

Matt glanced down at her, unable to suppress a grin. In the four years they'd been together, Kitty had never missed an opportunity to promote a less dangerous profession for him whenever given the chance.

"You would, would you," he chuckled, somehow already having a pretty good idea what was coming next. He put on his hat and adjusted it on his forehead. "Well...what you got in mind?" he then wondered anyway.

The pretty redhead pursed her lips in a thoughtful expression.

"Oh...I don't know," she replied slowly, "but I'm pretty sure we could find something for you to do around the Long Branch--"

Right away, Matt's grin widened.

"I see," he said as he crossed his arms over his chest, amused at finding his thoughts confirmed.

"Well, let me tell ya somethin'...if this keeps goin', I might just take you up on it."

The Marshal's words caused a frown to pass across Doc's face. He pulled a hand from the pocket of his baggy trousers and scratched his ear.

"Oh, Matt," he began, suddenly remembering a sign he had seen in the undertaker's window this morning, "I heard Percy Crump's lookin' for help."

The doctor hadn't really been serious, the humorous glint in his eyes and the twitching of his graying mustache betraying his intentions, but Chester apparently failed to notice.

"Well, honest to goodness, Doc," he immediately tossed in frowning as he now emerged from behind Kitty, "that sure's a fool way to be talkin'--" He snorted in disbelief. "I mean, can you imagine...Mister Dillon bein' the one shootin' a fella an' then turn around an' do the buryin', too--"

Instantly, the doctor bristled at the unsolicited opinion. He sniffed and swiftly dragged a hand across his mustache, leveling the full weight of his gaze upon Chester.

"Golly, I don't see what that's--" he began, but Matt, seeing him gear up for an argument, held up a hand to stop him.

"Well, now wait a minute," he said--to everyone's surprise, looking and sounding quite serious, "that might not be such a bad idea." He clasped his fingers around his belt buckle. "You wanna tell me more about it, Doc?"

Chester gawked at him in disbelief, but what ever he was going to say, was suddenly sidetracked by a cloud of dust that was quickly approaching from the edge of town. He craned his neck to peer past Matt's shoulder.

"Oh, Mister Dillon...look," he said excitedly, touching the Marshal's arm, "the stage's comin' in." He cast him a hopeful glance, his argument with the doctor momentarily forgotten. "Maybe your paycheck's on it this time--"

Matt raised his brows, his face showing his doubts. He took a deep breath and let it falter between his lips.

"Well," he muttered, giving Chester a nudge, "let's go an' find out."

He nodded at the physician, "Doc," and then turned to Kitty, touching the brim of his hat. "I see you later."

Smiling, Kitty nodded at him in dismissal.

"All right, Matt."

For a moment, her gaze followed him as he stepped from the boardwalk and down into the dusty street, Chester falling into step alongside him. Then she heaved a small sigh and turned back to the doctor, a rueful smile on her lips.

"Well,... can't blame me for tryin', Doc."

"By golly...an' you keep tryin'," the crusty physician encouraged her, resolutely patting her forearm.

Even though she rarely said it outright, Doc was well aware of how Kitty felt about Matt's job as US Marshal. Too many times had he seen the anguish and pain in her eyes whenever he had to dig a bullet out of the lawman or stitch him up, and secretly, he sometimes wished himself that Matt would just hang up his badge and marry Kitty.

Quickly shaking off his thoughts, he offered her his arm.

"Can I interest you in a little stroll?" he ventured smiling.

His eyes were twinkling merrily and Kitty found herself returning the smile despite herself. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.

"You most certainly can."

_x_

The rumble of wheels and the clopping of hooves announced the arrival of the stage as it came rattling down Front Street. A team of four horses preceded the massive coach, their harnesses and reins jangling with each thunderous step. Clouds of dust spewed in the air, kicked up by the resounding strike of hooves.

Moments later, it came to a shuddering halt in front of the Overland Express depot, engulfing everyone in close proximity in an enormous cloud of dust.

"Howdy, Marshal...Chester," called Jim Buck from the high seat when he saw the two men standing amongst the small crowd that had congregated on the boardwalk.

Matt stepped up to the stage, casually placing an elbow onto the nearest window opening.

"Hello, Jim," he said, squinting up at the driver against the glare of afternoon sunlight, "had a good trip?"

"Nothin' unusual," the driver replied as he swiftly secured the leathers, "still wish I had me someone to ride shotgun though...been over a week since Dan quit an' they still haven't send me a replacement."

Matt's head dipped in acknowledgment.

"Well, I see what I can do," he answered conversationally, "I just might have someone there for you."

"Thanks, Marshal," said Jim, and he suddenly remembered that the lawman's frequent visits as of late had not been to make polite conversation. He didn't waste any more time with small talk and reached behind his seat, pulling a stack of letters from the mail bag.

"Well...here's the mail," he then said as he handed the pile down to Matt, "whatever it is you're waitin' for--hope you got it this time."

Matt thanked him and immediately began to riffle through the small stack while Chester beside him sniffed and coughed, waving a hand in front of his face to disperse the dust raised by the horses.

"I tell ya one thing, Mister Dillon...a little rain sure wouldn't hurt us none."

"Yeah," agreed Matt absently, too engrossed in thumbing through the mail to pay him much attention.

Chester sidled closer for a better look. "Nothin' again?" he wondered as he peered over the Marshal's shoulder.

Matt looked up, his thumb flicking back the brim of his Stetson in annoyance. He exhaled wearily.

"No...nothin' again, Chester."

Disappointed, he slapped the pile of letters into the palm of his open hand.

"Let me tell ya...that job at Crump's startin' to sound mighty good."

Right away, Chester scowled.

"Oh, now, Mister Dillon...you ain't serious about that...I mean...come on."

Matt shot him a look that left no doubt as to how serious he felt at this very moment.

"Don't tempt me," he simply growled and then gave the brim of his Stetson a sharp tug, pulling it down low over his forehead. He stepped back up onto the boardwalk and was about to head for the jail when a small voice suddenly stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Excuse me, sir--"

_to be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

x

Startled by the voice that came out of nowhere, Matt turned, skimming his gaze over the remaining bystanders and then looked down. Standing on the sidewalk, clutching a worn-looking valise in front of him and looking rather lost, was a little tow-headed, freckle-faced boy, no older than seven or eight years old.

The Marshal looped his thumbs into the front of his gun belt.

"What can I do for you, son?" he wondered.

The boy set down the battered valise, a reply on his lips but then his eyes widened when he saw the badge pinned to Matt's shirt.

"Gee whiz...you a lawman?" he asked, clearly intrigued.

Matt couldn't resist a grin at the youngsters awe-struck expression.

"Yeah...you might say so. My name's Marshal Dillon." He motioned with his head at his assistant, "and this here's Chester Goode."

"How'd you do," said Chester with a cheery smile.

"My name's Rory Crandall," the boy now introduced himself. He stuck out a rather grubby-looking hand for Matt to shake and Matt shook it. "I'm gonna be a lawman, too when I grow up." The small chest puffed out proudly and he grinned up at the two men, revealing one oversize front tooth with empty spaces on either side.

"That so?" chuckled Matt good-naturedly and then stopped short, doing a double take when he caught something moving behind the boy's back. "Say...what's that?" he asked, pointing at a glimpse of reddish hair now poking out from underneath Rory's arm.

"Oh...almost forgot," the little boy replied, "this here's ma li'l sister Carrie."

At her brother's gentle urging, a little girl now hesitantly emerged from behind him, clasping a rather sorry-looking ragdoll to her chest. Thumb in mouth for comfort, she shyly glanced up at the two men from big, green eyes.

She was tiny, Matt couldn't help but think astounded, not much bigger than a pup, and if he had to take a wild guess, he'd have to say that she was no older than three at the most. Her reddish curls were a tangled mess and her light blue calico dress was wrinkled and stained, showing the same signs of neglect as her older brother's clothing.

Matt dropped down on his heels in front of her.

"Glad to know you, Carrie," he said gently, reaching out to pat her arm.

Startled, she shrank back from his looming presence, clutching her brother's hand. She cocked her head slightly, her green eyes assessing the Marshal intently for a long moment. Then, thumb still in mouth, her face broke into a bright little smile.

Amused by the fact that she seemed to approve of him after all, Matt flashed her a smile of his own and then straightened back up. He focused his attention on the boy again.

"Is there anythin' I can help you two with?"

Rory nodded quickly, blond curls, desperately in need of a trim, bouncing in rhythm.

"It's our uncle...he's s'posed to pick us up here an' we cain't find him."

Matt rocked backwards on his heels. "I see...well, what's your uncle's name?"

"His name's Uncle Luke, Marshal...Luke Crandall," the youngster volunteered.

Matt couldn't place the name right off hand.

"Luke Crandall," he repeated, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, "I don't think I ever heard of him."

Chester shook his head. "No, Mister Dillon...neither have I to tell ya the truth."

"Well, what's your uncle look like?" Matt now probed further as his eyes began to scan the few people that were still standing on the boardwalk, none of them exactly looking like an "Uncle Luke" to him.

The little boy stuffed his hands down into the pockets of his threadbare pants.

"Don't know...ain't never seen him afore."

"Never seen him before?" echoed Chester, "well, I declare--" He clucked astounded.

"Doc Hopkins sent him a letter from Wichita to come an' fetch us in Dodge," elaborated Rory in response to Chester's puzzled expression.

A frown passed across Matt's face at the mentioning of another unfamiliar name.

"Doc Hopkins?"

He exchanged a quick glance with Chester who, never having heard the name either, simply shrugged.

"Say," the Marshal now couldn't help but wonder, "how come you're traveling all by yourselves anyway? Where are your folks?"

The boy hesitated, suddenly looking downcast. "We had to, Marshal," he then replied quietly, "our ma an' pa died last month from the spotted fever an' Uncle Luke an' Aunt Millie's the only folks we's got left."

"Oh, my goodness, Mister Dillon," exclaimed Chester immediately, "if that ain't a downright shame--them poor things." He stared down at the two youngsters with pity.

The mentioning of her mother caused the little girl's face to pucker into a scowl.

"I want mommy," she declared miserably as she tugged on her brother's sleeve.

"Don't cry, Carrie, it's gonna be all right," the boy soothed her gently. He stooped down and wrapped his arms around her middle, awkwardly lifting her off the ground.

It was an oddly touching scene, seeing how the little fellow struggled to hold his sister who suddenly seemed a lot bigger in his small arms. Matt smiled down at the two with sympathy.

"Well...maybe you can tell me where your uncle lives," he wondered, hoping that the boy knew at least that much.

Rory shrugged, his voice muffled by his sister's hair.

"Don't know."

"You don't know?"

The boy's voice was now merely a whisper. "No, sir."

With a weary exhalation of breath, the Marshal rubbed his neck.

"Well, you know...that doesn't exactly give us much to go on," he concluded, trying hard not to sound as frustrated as he felt.

Chester shook his head in troubled agreement.

"No, Mister Dillon...I sure don't see how we're gonna be able to find him like that...I mean, not knowin' what he looks like an' all."

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Matt thought on it for a moment, watching as Carrie wriggled from her brother's arms.

"Look, Chester," he then said, tapping his assistant's arm with the back of his hand, "why don't you go an' ask around town some, see if anyone's heard of this 'Luke Crandall'. I'm gonna go an' have a talk with Jonas, he might just know somethin'. I'll meet you over at the office later."

Chester gave an earnest nod.

"Yes, sir, I sure will."

With a final, compassionate glance at the children, he took off down the street to carry out the Marshal's bidding.

"How about us?" Rory now wondered hesitantly as he looked up at the lawman who towered like a giant over him.

Matt pushed his hat back and scratched his forehead, his eyes thoughtfully contemplating the two youngsters.

"Well, I s'pose you two better come along with me." he decided after quick consideration. He turned to go but a sudden tug on the leg of his pants stopped him in his tracks. He looked down.

"Me tired," declared Carrie, small chubby hands fisting at sleepy eyes. Then she reached out and grabbed one of the Marshal's big hands in both of hers, her grubby little face turned up trustingly.

Matt looked down at her, trying to decide whether the statement held some kind of request. He had to admit that his experience with children, especially ones as young as this one here, was rather limited. The small arms, now stretched up towards him, made him realize quickly what she wanted. A smile began to tug at his lips.

"Well, come on then...up you go, honey."

He bent down and lifted her up, settling her securely in his arm. He preferred not to think of the curious stares he knew he was bound to attract carrying a little girl around with him, but he silently decided that it still looked better than walking stooped over beside her, holding her hand.

He grabbed the valise from the sidewalk and the threesome began to head up the bustling street towards the Mercantile, inevitably attracting the curious eyes of several passersby.

By the time they had reached the store, Carrie was sound asleep in his arm and Matt had been forced to endure several tongue-in-cheek inquiries as to whether he had now taken up baby-sitting.

There were only a handful of customers inside when they stepped through the Mercantile's front door moments later. Two women were standing at a table off to the left, examining several bolts of fabric spread out before them. They were talking softly among themselves, trying to decide which one would be the better buy. A farmer over by the counter was reading off his supply list to Mr. Jonas while the storekeeper was hustling back and forth between the shelves to gather the requested goods.

At the tinkling of the door chime, Jonas lifted his bespectacled eyes.

"Hello, Marshal," he called when he saw the lawman enter, "I'll be right with you."

Matt acknowledged him with a tip of his head and set down the valise to wait his turn. He watched amused as Rory's eyes immediately began to devour the various jars filled with peppermint candy and horehound, lemon drops and licorice.

"Go ahead, pick you out some if you like," Matt encouraged him with an indulging smile.

The little boy didn't need to be told twice and went straight to work.

Finally finished with filling the farmer's order, the storekeeper at last turned to the Marshal. Wilbur Jonas was a soft-spoken, slight man in his fifties with a mustache and receding reddish-blonde hair which he kept strategically combed back over his thinning top.

Sticking his pencil behind his ear, his curious gaze slid to the little girl in the lawman's arms. He was about to open his mouth to inquire about her, but his attempt withered quickly under Matt's warning look not to probe.

His face fell just a little.

"Well, what can I do for you, Marshal?" he then wondered, suddenly a lot less enthusiastic.

Matt came straight to the point.

"Say, Mr. Jonas, you ever do any tradin' with a man by the name of Luke Crandall?"

The storekeeper pursed his lips and rolled his eyes up in thought.

"No, I don't believe I ever heard that name before," he replied at last. "What's the matter with him...he in some kinda trouble, Marshal?"

Matt glanced down at Carrie, suddenly aware of an ominous wetness that was beginning to spread rather quickly across his arm that was holding her. He heaved an imperceptible sigh.

"No,...but I might be if I can't find him soon--"

Ignoring Jonas' quizzical expression, he now turned his attention to the two ladies who had been stealing quick, curious glances at him ever since he had walked through the door. But to his disappointment, they weren't able to help either, neither one having heard of the Crandall's before.

Matt was beginning to get seriously worried; what if they were unable to locate the children's uncle? He decided to go and talk to Doc Adams. The physician was a frequent visitor to the many farms and homesteads surrounding Dodge, and if the Crandall's indeed lived in the area, he was the most likely person to have heard of them.

He had Mr. Jonas add the small bag of candy, Rory had picked to his bill and then prepared to leave. He picked up the valise and stepped out onto the sidewalk, only to suddenly find himself face to face with Kitty.

She arched one delicate brow when she saw the sleeping toddler cradled in his arm. Carrie's face was snuggled against the Marshal's broad chest, one small hand clutched in the fabric of his shirt while the other dangled loosely over his arm. It was quite a picture, seeing her man so gently hold this little creature and it stirred something deep inside her.

She wasn't quite sure what it was but it brought a tender smile to her face.

"Well," she said with soft humor, unable to resist prodding him a little, "I was told that you were seen in the company of a lovely young lady."

Matt looked down at her, his expression one of slight exasperation. He was uncomfortably aware of the warm moistness on his arm and knowing where it came from didn't exactly help his mood any.

"Now don't you start on me, too," he grumbled.

The remark earned him a slight scowl from her, but the redhead quickly decided to let it slide, her curiosity getting the better of her. She stepped closer, her inquiring gaze shifting from the sleeping child to the Marshal.

"Who is she, Matt?"

"Well,...her name's Carrie Crandall," he introduced the girl and then motioned with his head to the boy at his side, "and this here's her brother Rory."

The little boy had his hands shoved down into his pockets and tried to cross his feet at the ankles. Matt barely caught him by the scruff of his neck before he tumbled into Kitty. He shot Rory a disapproving look, reminding him of his manners which the boy answered with an apologetic grin.

Matt made a face while Kitty struggled to keep a smile from hers.

"Hello, Rory," she acknowledged the boy warmly and then turned back to Matt, listening as he began, in few words, to explain the situation.

When he had finished, Kitty's face took on an expression of compassionate concern. She gently stroked the sleeping child's cheek.

"You know, the poor thing sure looks like she could use a bath."

"Yeah," he agreed with a wry smile, Carrie's curls tickling his chin as he looked down at her, "but I'm afraid that's not all she needs."

Kitty regarded him curiously upon overhearing the slight note of desperation in his voice, but Matt apparently didn't care to elaborate. He picked up the battered valise instead.

"Look, Kitty, I think we better get goin'...we were just on our way to see Doc."

But the pretty redhead wasn't about to be put off that easy. She settled a tender hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Well, come on, I'll walk over there with you," she declared determinedly.

Matt nodded agreeably.

"All right," he replied and began to herd the small group down the boardwalk.

_to be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

** Chapter Three**

x

_Went out to Jake Morrison's. Be back tonight. Doc Adams_.

Matt straightened with a scowl, thumbing his Stetson back on his head when he had finished reading the note stuck to the physician's door.

"That ain't good, Marshal, ain't it?" wondered Rory upon seeing the disappointed expression on the lawman's face.

"No...no, it sure isn't," replied Matt, "but I'm afraid there's nothin' we can do about it."

He cast Kitty a resigned glance; the situation was getting more complicated by the moment and he had absolutely no idea as what to do with the two youngsters.

Kitty seemed to be reading his mind.

"Well, maybe we ought to take them over to Ma Smalley's, Matt," she now suggested, "I'm sure she won't mind."

"Say,...now there's an idea," he declared pleased, wondering why he hadn't thought of that. Until they could figure out what to do with the children--or preferably, find their uncle, Ma's was without doubt the most suitable place for them. "Well, let's go an' talk to her."

x

The boardinghouse sat a little way back from the main road, right on the south edge of town. It was a cheery-looking house with white clapboard siding and a wrap-around porch. Ma Smalley took great pride in her establishment and it was evident; crisp lace curtains trimmed each one of the many windows and even the glass of the front door. Flower boxes atop the window ledges were brimming with a profusion of colorful wildflowers and the two rocking chairs on the porch invited guests to sit down while enjoying a piece of Ma's famous pie.

"Do we really have to stay here?" asked Rory morosely upon spying the lace curtains and flowers.

The house struck him as distinctly 'girlish' and he was certain that this Ma Smalley would probably make him take a bath, make him wear high-collared shirts and slick his hair back, too.

"Why cain't we just go with you, Marshal?"

"Because a jail's no place for children."

The little boy cocked his head slightly, scratching his nose.

"Well, where do your children live then?"

"I don't have any children," explained Matt patiently.

"None at all?"

"None at all," confirmed Matt.

"How come?"

Kitty raised a curious brow.

"Yes, how come?" she echoed innocently before Matt even had a chance to open his mouth.

He gave her an exasperated look.

"You know, you're not exactly helping matters any," he pointed out, not quite sure yet whether he wanted to be annoyed or amused by the remark. With a sigh, he motioned her to step up onto the porch ahead of him and followed right behind. "Come on, let's see about gettin' those two inside," he muttered.

It was probably a good thing that he didn't catch the conspiratorial wink that Kitty and Rory exchanged while he knocked on Ma's door.

_x_

As Kitty had predicted, Matt had no trouble convincing Ma to look after the children; the elderly lady was more than happy to take the two orphans under her wing, even if it was only for the night. Much to Kitty's amusement, Carrie was rather reluctant to abandon the warm safety of the Marshal's arms and he literally had to pry the loudly protesting toddler off him so that he could hand her over to Ma Smalley.

Carrie's demanding cries for the 'marsal', brought a bemused smile to Kitty's face.

"She seems quite smitten with you," she remarked, her eyes twinkling humorously after Ma had taken Rory and the still objecting Carrie inside.

Matt grinned, leaning his shoulder against a porch post.

"You noticed that, too, huh?"

It didn't escape him that the little girl seemed to have taken quite a liking to him. He had to admit that it felt kind of nice. He started to cross his arms over his chest, but abandoned the attempt quickly when he remembered his wet arm.

"Say, what happened to your sleeve?" wondered Kitty.

Matt's brow furrowed slightly.

"My sleeve?" he echoed innocently, knowing good and well what she had said.

Right away, she fixed him with a reproving look.

"Oh, that--" he now attempted to stall, feeling more than just a little embarrassed by the mishap.

But the pretty redhead was rather quick at putting two and two together.

"Oh, Matt...don't tell me, she--" Kitty broke off, her face widening with sudden understanding.

Her hand flew to her mouth, desperately trying to stifle a laugh, but she was only partly successful.

The effort was not lost on Matt. Frowning, he glanced from her to his sleeve, making a vain attempt at shaking it out.

"Look," he said, clearing his throat to cover his embarrassment, "I guess, I better go an' change my shirt."

Kitty bit her lip, still vainly striving not to laugh. Matt's frustration was almost comical. She nodded, the knowing smile still lurking in the corners of her mouth.

"Yes, I think you'd better to that," she answered, patting his dry arm. "I see you tonight, Matt."

He acknowledged her and waited until she had disappeared inside the boarding house to give Ma a hand with the children as she had promised.

Matt eyed his sleeve again. He expelled a weary breath and then began to make his way back to the office, silently resolving to arrest the first person that would comment on it.

_x_

After donning a clean shirt, he devoted himself to asking around town some more. But as much as he tried, his efforts proved less than fruitful. Nobody in Dodge seemed to have heard of the Crandall's and by the time evening came around, he had pretty much given up hope.

Chester didn't have any more luck; he had been all over, even checked on some of the closer farms and homesteads surrounding Dodge but hadn't been able to find out anything either.

They finally decided to wait a few hours and then make their rounds of the various saloons and gambling establishments in town. The night always drew a whole new crowd of pleasure-seekers and chances were, that maybe one of them knew this Luke Crandall.

Two hours later, Matt was on his way down to the Long Branch to have his customary nightly beer and ask around some more while Chester headed over to the Texas Trail and the Lady Gay to try his luck there.

As the darkness began to settle over the streets of Dodge, the warm night air became alive with a whole new variety of sounds. Tinny, off-key piano music was floating from one of the many establishments that lined Front Street, mingling with the raucous banter of cowboys and the gay chatter of saloon girls. It seemed to Matt that the streets were even livelier tonight than they had been all day. But then again, this was Dodge City and one could always count on the town to live up to its reputation.

With jingling spurs, a group of cowhands came clambering up the boardwalk towards him, laughing and loudly carrying on among themselves. Nodding their howdy's, they split up to walk around the lawman, only to rejoin seconds later when they had passed him.

Matt slowed his step as he approached the saloon and stopped just outside the entrance. He was greeted by a fluctuating mesh of voices and laughter, creating a comfortable din, as inviting as it was loud.

Bringing a hand to rest on the top of one of the swinging doors, he looped the other around his belt buckle, quickly letting his alert gaze skim over the noisy Friday night crowd for any signs of trouble.

The bar room was filled near capacity tonight. All the tables were taken; men sat drinking and playing cards, and stood, hip to hip, at the long, wooden bar. Everything seemed relatively peaceful, but Matt knew how easily a small disagreement over a spilled drink, a woman or a misspoken word could escalate into a fight. It didn't matter who they were, young or old, they always seemed to get in trouble when they came to Dodge.

Pushing the batwing doors inwards, he prepared to step inside. The air was dense with the smell of whiskey, beer and cigar smoke, men's stale sweat and the sweet, heady perfume, favored by the saloon girls.

Matt let his keen glance search the crowd and quickly located who he was looking for; the pretty redhead was standing at the far end of the bar, waiting for Clem, the barkeep to draw a couple of beers.

He began to make his way towards her, feeling the jolting press of bodies against his own as he pushed his way through the thick throng.

As if sensing his approach, Kitty lifted her head. She watched as he stopped here and there long enough to exchange a friendly greeting with someone. She smiled to herself; the way Matt towered over most people, he was hard to miss--even if one wanted to.

"Hello, Kitty," he said with a tip of his head as he now came up alongside her.

She smiled at him in response and then paused, the smile fading when she saw the troubled expression on his face.

"You look like you didn't have much luck."

Matt rested his forearms on the bar and leaned forward, turning his head to face her.

"Well,...not so far anyway," he murmured his frustration and then looked up, nodding his thanks to Clem who had just placed a cold beer in front of him. "But I'm not ready to give up just yet...there's still a couple of places we haven't looked--the Long Branch's one of 'em."

Kitty nodded in the direction of the crowd.

"Be my guest...ask to your heart's content, cowboy."

Matt cast her a less than enthusiastic glance. He was afraid that it would probably take him the better part of the night if was to question every customer that walked though those swinging doors in the course of the evening.

As if she was reading his thoughts, Kitty reached over and laid an assuring hand on his arm.

"If it helps...I'll keep my eyes open, too. I'm sure, someone's gonna recognize that name sooner or later."

Matt nodded.

"Well, let's hope so...I don't know if I can ask Ma to keep those two for more than a night...after all, she's not the youngest anymore." His hand fingered the beer mug, drawing wet circles on the scarred wooden counter with the bottom of it.

"Well, she's not that old either, Matt," reproved him Kitty immediately. She paused and then added, her tone softer now, "you know, she really enjoyed, looking after those two today."

Matt looked up from his glass, lifting his gaze to her.

"Well, I'm glad she did," he said, "but I still need to find this uncle Luke--preferably as soon as possible."

He took a long swallow from his beer and then turned to face the crowd, doing another, this time more thorough survey of the room. There were a lot of new faces tonight. It was a fact that held renewed hope. Hope, that maybe one of them was familiar with the Crandall's.

After gulping down the rest of his beer, he began to dig in his vest pocket for some change. A frown quickly spread across his face when he realized that he didn't have any.

"Sorry, Kitty but I'm afraid, I owe you that one," he apologized.

Kitty cocked her head and lifted her gaze to his, her blue eyes assessing him mischievously.

"Well...don't worry, cowboy," she purred, "I'm sure we can think of some way for you to pay it off." She traced her fingers meaningfully over his knuckles and gave him a quick wink.

He caught the teasing glint in her eyes and it didn't take him much to figure out what she had in mind. The suggestive connotation implicated in her words was _not_ exactly where he wanted his imagination to go right now and his better judgment was telling him to ignore the remark, especially since they were hardly alone, but he seemed to be lacking in willpower tonight.

After quickly glancing about as if to make sure that no one was within earshot, he moved closer, his eyes now locking with hers.

"What do you say," he began and then paused to clear his throat, "we talk about that later?" His voice was low and though he succeeded at keeping a straight face, his eyes had an all too familiar, impish gleam to them.

His words elicited a soft chuckle from Kitty.

"Sure," she replied, giving his hand a quick squeeze.

Matt straightened, bringing his gaze around to rest on a table close by where four cowhands were engaged in a lively conversation. Broken bits and pieces of what they were saying drifted to his ears. They were talking about the weather and cattle, making jokes and comments about women.

It was typical saloon talk, the kind, one could hear in any saloon across Kansas.

"Well," he said, reluctantly pulling his thoughts back to the original thread of their conversation,

"I better start askin' around before they all get too liquored up to remember their own names."

He turned to go but Kitty's hand upon his forearm stayed him.

"Good luck, Matt."

He flashed her a wary smile. "Thanks, Kitty...I got a feelin' I need it."

With that, he began to move for the nearest table where three men where hunched over a poker game, their eyes carefully adverted to their cards.

Kitty picked up the two beers and let her gaze linger on him a moment longer. She heaved a small sigh; _why couldn't everything he had to deal with as Marshal be as harmless as locating a lost relative_, she thought to herself, not knowing yet that the next day was about to prove how wrong she was.

_to be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_x_

It was well past one in the morning by the time the Marshal had finished his nightly rounds of the town. Much to his disappointment, his inquiries regarding Luke Crandall had not turned up any useful information. At least the day had ended peaceful though and without any over-night 'guests' at the jail, there was no need for him to spend the night at the office. Aside from the fact that he preferred Kitty's bed over his lumpy cot, he knew that she was waiting for him, wanting to hear whether he had found out anything.

After leaving Chester in charge of the empty jail, he headed back down to the Long Branch.

The soles of his boots scraped against the scuffed planks, sending clipped echoes rebounding into the night as he strode down the length of the boardwalk, pausing now and then to double-check a door handle here and there.

In stark contrast to only an hour ago, everything was now peaceful and quiet, not a single soul out in the street. There were times, Matt thought, when Dodge was getting downright tame. Unfortunately, it never lasted very long and it made him appreciate nights like this one all the more.

He came to a halt when he had reached the Long Branch. A quick glance up towards her window assured him that she hadn't yet called it a day before he rounded the corner and stepped into the alley beside the saloon. Shadows lingered in profuse abundance, draping the discarded crates and empty whiskey barrels, broken chairs and tables--all proof of the booming business, Bill Pence and Kitty were enjoying.

Stopping in front of the side door, he began to fish in his vest pocket for the key Kitty had given him three years ago, shortly after it had become apparent that he was spending more than just the occasional night at her room. She had handed it to him with the explanation that it would be more practical if he could let himself in, but to Matt, the key had meant much more than that. He had never told her, but to him, it was a token of her love, a sign of her trust in him, another bond linking him to Kitty. Of course, he had figured out fairly quickly that she was counting on him to make good use of the key. So far, he had.

The gentle creaking of the floorboards under his weighty tread as he walked down the hall, drifted to Kitty's ear. She ceased running the brush through her long, red hair and set it down onto the vanity. Moments later, a soft knock could be heard.

Kitty smiled to herself; he usually only bothered with such proprieties when he saw light spilling through the crack at the bottom of the door or during the daytime when he was subject to the inevitable scrutiny of others.

She rose to her feet and headed for the door.

A second knock was followed moments later by the hushed sound of his familiar voice.

"Kitty?"

The door swung soundlessly on its hinges as Kitty opened it to admit the lawman. She watched him take off his hat and step past her into the room.

"How'd it go?" she wondered after she had locked the door behind him, "did you find out anything more about this uncle Luke?"

Matt turned to face her, his fingers toying with the brim of the hat. The answer was written all over his face.

"Not a thing," he said quite unnecessarily. He ran a hand down the back of his hair to massage the aching muscles of his neck. "Chester an' I've been to ev'ry saloon in Dodge an' nobody's heard of this Luke Crandall."

"Hmmm...that just doesn't make no sense at all," she mused as she took her seat in front of the vanity again and continued to brush out her hair, "surely, there has to be someone who knows him, or at least heard of him."

Matt tossed his hat onto the table

"Well, I tell ya...if there is--we haven't found him yet."

He laced a hand through his hair, expelling a tired breath. A jumble of dark curls sprang back into place the moment his fingers slipped free.

Unfastening his gun belt, he moved over to Kitty's latest acquisition, a spacious cast-iron bedstead.

A remembering smile curved the corners of his mouth as he recalled how Kitty had proudly presented it to him a week ago, explaining that it matched the decor of her room better than the old wooden one had. But despite her seemingly plausible explanation, he had gotten the distinct feeling that it had less to do with the decor than with him. At six foot seven, he wasn't exactly the smallest man and the old bed had never really been big enough to accommodate the both of them very comfortably.

He slung the gun belt over the post of the footboard and then lowered his large frame onto the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight and the bedsprings squeaked loudly in protest. The bed was soft and very comfortable, inviting him to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Stifling a yawn, he began to strip off his dusty boots.

"You look tired," observed Kitty.

He looked up, meeting her gaze in the mirror.

"I am," he muttered, offering her a smile that matched how he felt, "and I'd sleep a lot better, too if I knew where to find this Luke Crandall."

Kitty thought on it for a moment.

"You know something, Matt?" She put down the brush and their eyes met again in the silvered glass of the vanity mirror. "I know this may sound strange, but what if this uncle Luke doesn't want to be found?"

Matt ceased tugging on his boot, considering what she had just said.

"Well, anything's possible," he then conceded with a shrug, "but I got a hunch, it's much simpler than that...he probably just didn't get the letter yet." He paused, his face now taking on a slightly sour expression, "seein' how the mail around here seems to be takin' its time lately, I wouldn't be a bit surprised."

"Well...I guess that's sure enough true," the redhead agreed, reminded at once of the dress she had special-ordered from St. Louis well over two months ago and still was waiting for. She rose to her feet and walked over to the wardrobe where she disposed of her frilly dress robe. "You never told me what Doc had to say."

Matt shrugged.

"I didn't talk to him...the last I checked, he wasn't back yet."

He rose to stand and pulled off his vest, his eyes following her as she began to move towards the window.

"Well," he added, tugging the hem of his shirt from his pants, "there's not much more we can do about it tonight anyway. I make sure, I'll talk to him first thing in the mornin'."

Kitty couldn't agree more--if anyone knew every farmer and sodbuster who lived within a hundred mile radius, it was Doc Adams.

"You make sure you do, Matt," she said as she closed the window, "I can't think of anyone better to ask."

The warm light of the oil lamp infused the room with a brassy glow, akin to the yellow glimmer of a late-day harvest sun. Its wavering light played over her figure outlined against the window and Matt couldn't help but notice how the thin cotton nightgown was clinging rather provocatively to the delicate form of her petite frame, accentuating every subtle curve.

Kitty drew the curtains shut. A sudden awareness of his presence compelled her to turn, but before she could, a pair of strong hands came to rest gently on her shoulders as Matt stepped up to her from behind.

"How about you come to bed," he murmured huskily into her ear as his fingers started a slow, soft massage against her shoulders, "I still owe you for that beer, remember?" He followed up his words by dropping a soft, persuasive kiss onto her hair.

Kitty's body tingled at the sound of his deep resonating whisper and the warmth of his breath against her skin as he began to nuzzle the curve of her neck. She smiled to herself; obviously, he wasn't as tired as she had thought.

She turned in his embrace, taking in the familiar, warm-spicy scent of him. The smell of the outdoors and shaving soap tangled with the sweet, heady musk of sweat; a mixture, she had always found enticing on him.

"I haven't forgotten, cowboy," she replied as she slowly splayed a palm across his chest, "but the way you looked when you came through that door, I figured you in no shape to discuss repayment."

Her tone was playful, baiting him and Matt immediately recognized the tease for what it was. He grinned down at her, his hands still on her shoulders.

"You don't think I can work it off, huh?" he teased back, blue eyes, dark with desire, probing hers intently. He liked how the light fell soft on her pretty face, leaving some of it in shadows.

Kitty could feel the warmth of his skin radiating through the coarse fabric of his shirt.

Idly, her fingers began to toy with the top button.

"You could prove me wrong," she challenged, letting her voice trail off seductively as she eased the button free.

A smile tugged at his lips.

"I s'pose I could--"

One after another, Kitty's fingers worked their way down until the last button on his shirt was undone.

"Then why don't you?" she purred as her fingers parted his shirt.

Matt felt her hand glide over his stomach. The contrast of her cool fingers against his warm skin was startling and his grip on her shoulders tightened noticeably. He pulled her closer.

"I aim to," he murmured against her mouth as his lips claimed hers with tender passion.

There was only so much a man could stand and no woman had ever been as quick at arousing his desire as Kitty. He buried his hands in her silky tresses, the subtle, flowery scent of her perfume tantalizing his senses, captivating him.

The way she responded with the same intensity, set off a shiver straight to his core. Her lips were soft and yielding beneath his own as she willingly parted them for him, welcoming his further advances.

He liked how her palms felt on the small of his back and the way her full, nightgown-clad breasts rubbed against his stomach.

He liked it a little _too_ much. His body was responding eagerly, and he had little doubt that she could feel it for herself, pressing herself against him like she did.

His thoughts were quickly confirmed as he felt her fingers glide along the edge of his belt and then down the front of his pants, settling in that most sensitive of spots.

Matt groaned softly. She certainly didn't make it easy for him to keep his clamoring need in check, putting his plan of taking it slow and easy, sorely to the test.

Needing to slow things down just a little to gain control of his burgeoning passion, he eased out of their kiss and drew back. He raised one hand and gently lifted her chin with one knuckle, drawing her gaze up to his. Her delicate features were now highlighted by a warm blush that colored the ivory skin of her cheeks.

Kitty smiled at the sensuous expression on his face.

"Not bad for a tired lawman--"

Matt cocked a brow, his blue eyes twinkling impishly.

"I'm not all lawman--"

His voice was a low, deep murmur as he brought his face down to hers again, "an' I'm not _that_ tired."

Then he kissed her again deeply, demandingly to prove just that.

His hands left her shoulders, stroking over her back in a motion, both stimulating and tender and then slipped lower to the smooth curves of her backside. Massaging their firmness through the thin fabric of her nightgown in suggestive rhythm, he pressed her hips intimately against him.

Kitty gasped softly, responding to the prominent feel of distinct male arousal against her belly. Her fingers found the buckle of his belt and loosened it and then worked on the buttons of his pants.

It was Matt's undoing--in both senses, and this time, he didn't draw back. Without lifting his mouth from hers, he urged her the short distance over to the bed and collapsed back onto the soft quilt, dragging her down on top of him.

The oil lamp on the bedside table flickered against the red flocked wallpaper, causing their shadows to loom large until Matt reached over and turned down the wick, plunging the room into complete darkness. All that was left was their breathing, their whispers to each other, the rustling of the sheets as their bodies began to entwine and soon move in a fashion as old as humankind.

_x_

A long time later, he lay exhausted, his damp forehead against her shoulder, his sweat-slicked body heavy and inert across hers.

Kitty could feel his heart pounding wildly against her own as she held him, the warm trickle of his breath tickling the skin of her neck. With soothing strokes, she gently slid her fingers through the back of his rumpled hair, waiting patiently for his rampant breathing to return to normal.

It took Matt a moment to float to his senses again. Still breathing a little unevenly, he pushed up on his forearms and smiled down at her.

"You s'pose that took care of the beer?"

Kitty returned the smile and reached out to smooth a damp curl off his brow.

"Consider the debt paid, cowboy."

Matt gave a satisfied grunt.

"Good. You know I don't like leavin' a debt unpaid."

"That's for sure," she replied amused as she trailed a lazy finger down his chest.

Matt bent down and sealed his mouth to hers in a tender kiss. Then he rolled off of her and turned on his side, pulling her back against him like stacked spoons. Holding her close, he buried his face in the damp nape of her neck and spread his hand across her stomach, circling slowly in a calming motion.

With a soft murmur, Kitty snuggled her back closer into the warmth of his chest, feeling wonderfully content and a little sleepy.

One thing was for sure, when Matt made love, he gave as much as he took. Perhaps more. She had known her share of men before this tall and handsome specimen of a lawman had walked into her life, and most of them had been abrupt and self-absorbed, but Matt had been different. Granted, their first intimate encounter had been rather brief--much to the embarrassment of an over-excited, young Marshal--but it still had been a satisfying experience for her. Unlike the others, he had been gentle and attentive, the first one to be genuinely interested in more than just his own gratification.

For a long while, they laid in companionable silence, each deeply aware of the physical presence of the other. Kitty cherished the feeling of complete intimacy and loved the quiet conversations that usually followed their lovemaking.

Whether it was a bed or their innermost thoughts, hopes and dreams, fears and disappointments, there was nothing of a personal nature that they withheld from each other. The words they were able to speak freely here, remained in her room and when he left and closed the door behind him they each had learned yet a little more about the other that only served to strengthen the bond they shared.

"Matt?" Kitty now broke the silence as she raised herself up on one elbow.

"Hmm?" he asked with sleepy unconcern, barely hearing her. He was drifting at the edge of sleep, his body satiated, his mind at ease.

She turned in his embrace.

"What's going to happen to those two if you can't find their uncle?"

A little surprised by her question, he opened his eyes and glanced down at her.

"Well...I'm not sure," he confessed, his voice rumbling deep from his massive chest, "if we can't find him and there's no other kin, they'll most likely end up as wards of the state."

There was a moment of silence as he felt Kitty studying him with the full weight of her gaze.

"You mean, there's nothing else you can do for them?" she persisted.

Matt expelled a slow breath as though the answer required serious contemplation.

"I'm afraid so," he replied at last. When she remained silent, he sighed wearily. "Look, Kitty...I'm hired to keep the peace, not look after orphans."

"Yeah, don't I know that," she retorted dejectedly, her tone clearly suggesting that she would prefer him to do the latter. Without another word, she turned back around and snuggled back down onto her pillow.

She wasn't upset--deep inside, she knew that Matt would do everything in his power to help those children, but still, his remark had struck a little too close to the truth for comfort.

Neither one of them picked up the conversation and soon, soft snoring noises were telling her that Matt had fallen asleep. Carefully, she extricated herself from his embrace.

"Good night, cowboy," she whispered softly as she rolled over and closed her eyes.

But sleep wouldn't come readily and her mind turned to the two Crandall-orphans again.

She knew what it was like to grow up without parents and her heart went out to those two. Still a child herself when her mother had died, she had been moved from relative to relative until she had finally ended up with a woman named Panacea Sikes.

It wasn't until two years ago that Kitty had finally met the father she had never known when he had paid her an unexpected visit in Dodge. Unfortunately, Wayne Russell's motives hadn't been exactly unselfish and their parting, a few days later, had been a bittersweet one.

She sighed softly and closed her eyes, pushing Wayne Russell from her mind. Her last thought before she fell asleep was the wish that Matt would be able to locate the children's uncle.

_to be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

_x_

The tempting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and fried bacon greeted Doc Adams as he stepped through the door of Delmonico's early the next morning. Surprised, he suddenly stopped short, causing Chester to almost bump into him. He pulled the pocket watch from his vest and squinted at its face, quickly checking the time. The watch said eight o' clock sharp, which meant he wasn't late, but rather that someone else was up and about before their regular time.

He shifted his gaze back to Matt and Kitty who were already sitting at their usual table. The two were enjoying a cup of coffee, quietly engaged in conversation.

Shaking his head amused, the doctor tucked the time piece back into his pocket. Kitty's presence in the company of the lawman that early in the morning was usually a pretty good indicator where Matt had spent his night. And judging by the look of utter contentment on his face, which Doc couldn't help but notice, it must've been a good one, too.

_Shame on you_, _Adams_, he immediately chided himself silently, but his self-reproof didn't carry too much conviction--the minute smile that was lurking in the corners of his mouth was testament to that. He had always thought that Kitty was the best thing that ever happened to Matt, and he was genuinely happy to see that their relationship was still going strong after almost four years.

"Well...you gonna just stand there all day or you gonna sit down an' get yourself somethin' to eat, Doc?" groused Chester suddenly from behind him, cutting into his thoughts, "I don't know about you, but I'm just plump starved."

Doc turned.

"Oh, for Heaven's sakes, goodness gracious," he said, bristling up at once, "you ever think of anythin' else besides food?"

He harrumphed and pushed his battered hat back. Then he shuffled over to the table, a starved Chester closely at his heel.

"Well, mornin' there, Kitty...Matt," he greeted the two with a friendly nod.

Kitty replaced her coffee cup on the saucer.

"How are you, Doc?" she greeted him smiling, adding a "Hello, Chester," when she saw the jailer step up behind the doctor.

"Mornin' there Miss Kitty...Mister Dillon," nodded Chester into the round, tipping his worn hat at her.

"Mornin', Doc," boomed Matt, motioning him towards the empty chair beside him, "sit down an' have some breakfast."

The physician sniffed and rubbed at his mustache.

"By golly, I think I will."

He set his medical kit down beside the table and eased himself into the offered chair.

"I just ran into Chester here," he then said, nodding at the young man who was about to seat himself beside Kitty, "he says you're lookin' for the Crandall's?"

Matt was about to fork up the last piece of bacon from his plate. Now his hand paused and he looked up at his friend.

"I sure am...you don't happen to know 'em, by any chance, do you?"

"It so happens I do, Marshal," the physician began to say, but he broke off when Joe, the waiter stepped up to the table.

"Bring me some coffee, Joe and--" He paused, quickly glancing at the meager remains of Matt's breakfast, "oh...just bring me a bowl of mush," he then finished, deciding against eggs and bacon today.

"Now where was I?" he murmured absently as he turned his attention back to the lawman. "Oh, yes...Luke an' Millie...the Crandall's. They moved here from Colorader about a year or so ago. Bought themselves a nice little spread out there by Cross Creek." He unfolded his napkin and tucked it in his vest.

"Cross Creek?" wondered Matt surprised. His fork remained suspended in mid-air as he looked at the doctor, "why, that's only a couple hours ride from here...you sure about that?"

Being the only lawman within a hundred and fifty mile radius, he always tried to meet as many of the homesteaders and sodbusters who lived in the area whenever he had a chance, but the prairie was vast and he normally didn't have much reason to call on those who didn't live in close proximity of Dodge, unless, of course, there was a problem.

Doc frowned, not liking to have his word questioned.

"Sure I'm sure," he groused, "I wouldn't tell ya if I wasn't."

The waiter returned and set a plate heaped with eggs, bacon and gravy before Chester and then filled the doctor's coffee cup.

Doc thanked him.

"I'm afraid that's all I can tell ya though, Matt," he then added, "you see, unlike Chester here, they're not exactly the talky kind...they pretty much like to keep to themselves."

Chester stopped shaking out his napkin and shot him a scowl.

"Now what's that s'posed to mean?"

Doc scratched his ear, ignoring the indignant query and then added thoughtfully, "come to think of it, I don't remember ever seein' the two in town before."

Kitty glanced at Matt over the rim of her coffee cup.

"Well, that might explain why nobody's heard of the Crandall's," she mused.

The Marshal nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, it sure sheds a little bit of light on the whole thing."

"What're you gonna do Mister Dillon," garbled Chester through a mouthful of egg, "you plan on takin' them young 'uns out there?"

Matt lowered his coffee cup.

"Looks like I'm gonna have to, seein' that their uncle's not very likely to show up in Dodge."

Doc leaned his elbow onto the table and pointed a finger at the lawman.

"Say, Matt, I gotta drive out to the Becker's here in a little while anyways--I wouldn't mind takin' those young'uns to the Crandall's for you. It'll save you a trip."

The Marshal weighed his friend's offer, giving it brief thought.

"Well,...to tell you the truth, I was kinda thinkin' of meetin' those Crandall's myself--after all I been hearin', it's got me kinda curious."

"Say, Mister Dillon...don't you have to ride out to Sy Anderson's today?" Chester now pointed out carefully, remembering a brief conversation they had yesterday afternoon.

"Yeah," Matt rubbed his chin in thought, "yeah, I almost forgot about that." He leaned back in his chair, exchanging a glance with the physician. "Well, Doc...looks like you just talked yourself into it--unless that is, you've changed your mind."

"No, no...it's no trouble, Matt," the doctor assured him, "no trouble at all. It's a long drive out to the Becker's and it'll be nice to have someone keep me company."

"Doc?" ventured Kitty, her chin poised on the back of her interlaced fingers, "I wouldn't mind keepin' you company." Glancing sideways through her lashes, she smiled sweetly--the meaning beneath that demure request very clear.

Not too many people could resist that particular smile, Doc included. He sniffed and rubbed at the bristles of his mustache.

"Well, by golly...I sure'd be delighted to have the company of a lovely, young lady such as yourself." His eyes twinkling with humor, he gave her a quick wink.

The doctor's flowery choice of words caused Chester to break into a frown.

"My gracious...just listen to yourself," he grumbled immediately, his voice holding just the tiniest twinge of jealousy, "you almost make it sound like you're tryin' to court Miss Kitty here--"

Doc snorted.

"Oh, be quiet, Chester," he brushed the young man off, too good in a mood to argue.

He picked up the cup and took a sip. Almost right away, his face screwed up in distaste.

"Oh, goodness gracious," he now complained as he lowered the cup, eyeing its contents suspiciously, "that coffee gets any worse, it'll have Chester's beat in no time."

The Marshal nodded slowly, looking down at the brownish liquid contained in his own cup.

"Yeah, it's pretty bad, isn't it?"

"Well, I swear...if that don't beat all," muttered Chester indignantly.

The physician shook his head.

"Just terrible," he confirmed, paying Chester no mind.

Kitty arched a delicate brow.

"But that's not gonna stop you two from drinking it," she pointed out dryly, glancing from Matt to Doc.

"No...no, by golly...not if I have to pay for it," the doctor reasoned calmly and then took another sip.

Kitty made little effort to hide her amusement, but she refrained from saying anything else, knowing that it was useless in the face of such incomprehensible, male logic. She gathered the napkin off her lap, slid it onto the table and then pushed her chair back.

"Well, why don't I go over to Ma Smalley's and help her get the children ready," she suggested instead.

She started to rise and right away, the three men stood as well. Doc moved to hold the chair for her.

"All right," he replied agreeably, "let me finish up here an' I'll meet you over there in half an hour."

After bidding Chester good-bye, she turned to the Marshal.

"I see you tonight, Matt," she said, smiling up at him.

The Marshal returned the smile.

"All right, Kitty."

He looped his thumbs around his beltbuckle and then leaned down to her, "Don't give him no ideas now," he intoned softly, nodding quickly towards Doc.

Kitty gave him a quick wink.

"Don't worry, cowboy," she replied coyly, "maybe he'll give me some instead--"

He chuckled softly, knowing better than to take her remark serious.

"Enjoy the trip," he then added, smiling down at her affectionately. They usually refrained from exchanging affections publicly, but that still didn't stop him from thinking about kissing her good-bye.

His eyes followed her as she left the restaurant and for a moment, he found himself regretting that he had to out to Anderson's today.

_to be continued..._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_x_

_What, on earth, was keeping Chester? _

The young man had assured him that he would be right back and that was almost an hour ago.

Anderson's ranch was a good three hours ride west from Dodge and Matt had wanted to get started as soon as possible. His thoughts now automatically drifted to the rancher again. Cattle rustling was one of the crimes that he had been forced to deal with quite frequently lately, especially out at Anderson's, and he was seriously beginning to wonder whether the perpetrators weren't part of the rancher's own crew.

One foot propped on the edge of the wood box, his palm braced against the brick wall, Matt cast another impatient glance through the dusty window panes, watching random morning activity unfurl around him. Across the street, Jonas was sweeping a broom back and forth across the plank boards in front of the mercantile, the methodic swipe producing a sibilant hiss that could be heard clear through the closed windows of the jail.

People were walking up and down the sidewalks, going about their daily business, but there was no sign of his assistant anywhere. Matt decided that he might as well get ready; with or without talking to Chester first, he had to get on his way soon. He turned from the window and crossed over to the rifle rack where he unlocked the chain to pull one of the Winchesters down. Perching himself on the edge of his battered and paper-strewn desk, he reached across its width to retrieve a box of cartridges from the drawer.

Just then, he heard the thudding of approaching footsteps outside on the porch. A short moment later, the door swung open.

Matt looked up to see his assistant enter.

"Well, about time, Chester," he said, unable to help himself from sounding a trifle sour, "I was just about to send a search party after you." He shoved the remaining cartridges into his vest pocket and rose from his desk. "What's been keepin' you anyway?"

Confused, Chester blinked.

"I-I'm sorry, Mister Dillon," he immediately began to apologize, "but I just went to get us some coffee." He held up a small sack in explanation, adding, "it's a good thing I did, else we wouldn't have none."

Matt arched a brow, far from appeased.

"And that took you almost an hour? The last I checked, Jonas' store was right across the street." A curt nod indicated the window and the mercantile lying beyond.

Chester scowled. There had been just enough bite in the words to draw a flicker of disapproval through his brown eyes.

"Well, I know that," he said, now sounding slighty defensive, "but I just run into Moss Grimmick outside. He was over at the Dodge House, you know, readin' the paper like he always does. Anyways, he's tellin' me about this fella from Abilene that just rode into town."

Matt crossed his arms over of his chest.

"That so?" he said, still not exactly impressed, "that must've been mighty important."

Chester shook his head and raked a hand through his hair in exasperation.

"Well, you'd understand if you'd just let me finish explainin' here, Mister Dillon--"

Expelling a 'here-comes-the story' sigh, Matt motioned with his hand in weary resignation.

"All right...go ahead...I'm listenin'."

He had been waiting long enough, another minute wouldn't make a difference now.

"Well," Chester began immediately, scratching his neck, "like I said, this there fella from Abilene I was tellin' you about, was tellin' Moss that he run into Dan Biggs down on the Cimarron an' I figured, I better go an' have me a talk with him."

The Marshal frowned in momentary confusion.

"With Dan Biggs?"

Chester made a face, not sure whether the Marshal was serious or just leading him on.

"Oh, Mister Dillon," he prompted, "not Dan Biggs...my goodness, I sure ain't that crazy--with that fella from Abilene, of course."

Matt's face widened in sudden understanding.

"I see."

He lapsed into silence as he chewed over this interesting bit of information. About a month or so ago, Jim Biggs, Dan's younger brother had come to Dodge and had wasted no time in picking a fight with another man at the Texas Trail saloon. When he was called to intervene, Biggs had foolishly pulled his gun on him, leaving him no other choice but to draw and, unfortunately, in the process, kill him.

"Now let me get his straight," he now said, "this fella told you that Dan Biggs is comin' to Dodge?"

Chester's head bopped up and down with grave certainty.

"Yes, sir, that's what I been a-tryin' to tell ya...Dan Biggs is comin' for you." He pointed to the door. "You want me go an' fetch that fella so's you can ask him yourself?"

Matt raised his hand.

"No...no, it's all right Chester."

He didn't really see the benefit in questioning the cowboy himself--it seemed that Chester had already done that sufficiently. Besides, he had already figured that it would only be a matter of time until the older Biggs got word of his younger brother's untimely demise and show up in Dodge. The Biggs brothers' reputation as notorious troublemakers, always tethering at the very edge of the law, was well known throughout the Kansas territory and beyond. But be it as it may, he would have to deal with Dan Biggs when the time came--right now, he had other matters to attend to.

"Ya know, Mister Dillon I sure don't feel too sorry for that brother of his--that Jim, I mean," mused Chester now, "s'matter of fact I wouldn't feel too sorry for Dan Biggs either. Those two sure are a worthless pair if you ask me."

Matt nodded.

"Well, you're right on that one." He let his breath out slowly and drew another one, straightening. "Look...I better get started for Anderson's--it's a long ride out there." He grabbed his canteen and rifle from the desk and moved for the door.

Chester looked clearly taken aback.

"Wh-what do you mean? What're gonna do about Biggs?"

Matt reached for his hat and put it on, adjusting it on his forehead.

"I don't know, Chester," he replied calmly, "I guess I have to decide that when the time comes. Right now, I got other things to worry about."

His fingers curled around the door knob, but before he could turn it, his assistant's voice stopped him again.

"Wait,...when you think, you'll be gettin' back?"

Matt thought on it briefly, terribly tempted to point out that he could've been halfway there by now, but then he said instead, "all goes well, I should be back some time tonight."

Leaving it at that, he stepped outside where his horse was waiting, dozing at the hitch rail. He slipped the Winchester into the rifle boot and slung the canteen over the saddle horn. After a quick check of the cinch strap, he took up the reins and toed the stirrup, swiftly drawing his large frame up into the saddle.

Chester had followed him outside and was now standing on the small front porch of the jail. The Marshal's indifferent attitude still puzzled him and he couldn't understand why he wasn't more concerned that the elder Biggs was on his way to Dodge.

With gentle guidance from the reins and slight pressure from his knee, Matt backed his mount from the hitch rail.

"Look after things for me til I get back, Chester, will ya?"

Chester shook off his thoughts and lifted his gaze.

"Don't you worry none," came his confident--albeit not exactly enthusiastic--assurance, "I'll take care of things."

"Well...so long then." Matt gave an acknowledging nod and pulled the horse around. He wasn't worried; he knew that he could trust Chester to keep an eye on the town while he was gone.

The jailer raised his hand and waved.

"Good-bye, Mister Dillon."

Matt nudged his spurs across the horse's flanks, and the buckskin broke into an easy jog down Front Street.

Chester stood and watched as the Marshal passed the last building on Front Street and then turned out of sight down the trail leading out onto the prairie.

A sudden chill stole over him. The thought of Dan Biggs coming to Dodge filled him with a disturbing sense of unease. He knew that Biggs was going to cause trouble--big trouble. He just knew it.

With a troubled shake of his head, he turned and headed back inside, glad that Biggs was still a good two-days ride from Dodge.

Or so at least he thought.

_x_

Doc Adams knew his way around the various trails and dirt roads that criss-crossed the Kansas prairie surrounding Dodge, and he even swore on occasion that he could travel them blindfolded. The trail to Cross Creek was no exception there. He had traveled it countless times before, whether it had been on his way out to the Becker's, a seemingly ever expanding family of German settlers or to greet the Crandall's when they had first bought their little homestead about a year ago.

He let his gaze wander across the vast landscape as the little black buggy continued to rock and bounce along the deeply rutted dirt road.

The prairie with its tall grass, interrupted here and there by groves of trees was peaceful and quiet on this summer day, and the sky overhead was brilliant blue, streaked by a low lying fleece of clouds. The air, though warm, was not yet muggy, alive with the buzzing of insects and the gay chirping of birds. It was simply that kind of day that made a man feel good and glad to be alive. Doc was no exception there--the happy tune that was softly spilling from his lips, was proof of that.

Soon they came across a fork in the dirt road.

The doctor knew that the left one would lead them to Cross Creek and several other isolated homesteads. He steered the buggy down the path.

The song ended and the doctor stole a glance at the pretty redhead sitting beside him. Her long, red hair was pulled back in a simple braid today, secured by an emerald green ribbon. A soft white blouse and tan-colored skirt completed the outfit. He thought that it made her look both, elegant and earthy--if any such thing was possible.

Kitty caught his gaze. She offered him a smile and Doc took the opportunity to break the companionable silence they had been traveling in for most of the last hour.

"She sure's a cute little thing, isn't she," he remarked, nodding at the sleeping toddler curled up in her lap.

Kitty smiled down at Carrie, fondly stroking her soft, curly hair.

"Yes," she agreed softly, "and you know somethin' else? She has good taste when it comes to picking her men."

Her remark prompted Doc to cast her a puzzled glance.

"Men?" he replied, "golly, Kitty, don't you think she's a little too young for that?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," she answered him, smiling bemused, "from what I've seen, she's got quite the case on Matt."

With a grunt that sounded suspiciously like disbelief, the doctor replied, "I don't know if I'd wanna call that 'good taste'...more like misguided."

"Oh, Doc, that was mean."

Kitty slapped his arm in a half-hearted attempt at outrage and Doc chuckled in response.

A comfortable pause ensued and lengthened. Then Doc spoke again, but this time, his voice held a quiet, more serious tone.

"Say Kitty,...you ever think of havin' one of your own?"

Kitty wasn't thrown or even too surprised by his question. Knowing Doc as she did, she had already somehow half-expected that this was what he was gearing up to. As she now reflected upon it, she was reminded once again that she was far from ready for this kind of commitment.

"I have, Doc," she answered him truthfully, "but you know as well as I do that a saloon is no place to raise a child."

_Come to think of it, neither was a Marshal's office. _"Besides," she then added, raising a brow, "it takes two...you of all people oughtta know that."

Doc sniffed and brushed his free hand across his mustache, thinking once again what a fool he thought Matt was for not just marrying her. A thought crossed his mind that caused a mischievous gleam to brighten his blue eyes.

"Golly, Kitty...if I was twenty years younger--"

"--if you were twenty years younger, Matt might have something seriously to worry about," the pretty redhead finished amused. She winked at him and they both chuckled at the turn their conversation had taken.

Doc gave the reins a practiced flick, and the horse broke into an easy jog as the buggy continued to lumber over the uneven road. Content, he settled back against the seat and began to softly hum some obscure melody.

Kitty used the opportunity to study the man sitting beside her.

_Just how old was Doc anyway?_ she found herself wondering.

She'd never really thought of it before. It had somehow never seemed important._Almost old enough to be her father_, she decided. There were times when he was fun-loving and youthful, and then there were other times when the weight of the years showed heavily in his eyes. At those times, he seemed like a man who carried the weight of the world's sick and wounded on his own shoulders. It was the one thing that set him apart the most from his counterparts; a genuine love and compassion for his fellow man. It didn't matter whether they were rich or poor, paid him in cash or vegetables and promises, Doc treated them all the same.

Kitty smiled to herself, silently deciding that the world could use a few more like him.

They continued on at an easy pace for another twenty minutes until suddenly, the small dirt road went over a low rise and then fell off abruptly, leading directly down into a little valley. A dry creek bed, its edges lined with a mature stand of cottonwood trees was located at the center of it. Cross Creek.

The buggy rattled down the rocky path, its occupants swaying in the grip of the jarring ride.

Kitty shifted a little, careful so as not to wake little Carrie. The black leather seat was hot from the sun and it made her skirt cling uncomfortably to her skin.

"I'm not complaining Doc, but how much further is it?"

The doctor pointed straight ahead.

"We're almost there. See it?"

She craned her neck and let her gaze follow in the direction his finger was pointing.

There, less than a quarter of a mile ahead, she caught sight of several buildings nestled amongst the trees. As they drew closer, a small, one-story board and batten farm house with a covered front porch came into view. To the left of it was a barn with a corral attached to it as well as two more, smaller outbuildings.

The little boy who had been sitting quietly in the backseat for most of the trip, suddenly stood up.

"That it, doc Adams?" he wondered excitedly, thrusting out his arm to point at the house.

Doc nodded. "It sure is, son...that's your aunt an' uncle's farm down there."

A short while later, the buggy rolled into the bare dirt yard and the doctor reined it to a halt in front of the main house. A huge tabby cat lay on the porch steps, dozing in the sun, another one, black with a white tip on its tail was prowling across the yard. Chickens were scratching in the dry dirt, some scattering and clucking loudly in protest at the unwelcome intrusion into their domain.

Doc's eyes quickly scanned the yard, searching for any sign of the owners. He noted a saw and remnants of recently cut lumber lying next to a half-finished chicken coup as well as a toolbox sitting beside it, but there was no sign of the Crandall's. He moved his gaze to the house and noted the absence of any smoke rising from the stovepipe.

After quickly securing the reins, he climbed off the buggy.

"Why don't you wait here while I have a look around," he suggested to Kitty.

She nodded in agreement.

The doctor shuffled up onto the sun bathed porch and knocked loudly several times. The seconds passed but no one came out to greet him.

His bushy brows drew together in a slight frown.

"Hello...anybody home?" he called out as he rapped on the door again, this time louder.

But still there was no answer.

Doc turned back to Kitty and shrugged. _This was rather strange_, he thought. He attempted to peer through the small windows on either side of the door, but the dust-streaked panes had been covered from the inside and Doc wasn't able to make out anything.

His mind was made up quickly and he reached for the doorknob. He was surprised when it turned easily in his hand. The worn hinges creaked loudly as he slowly swung the door inwards and stuck his head inside.

"Hello? Mrs. Crandall?" he called out to make his presence known before stepping all the way inside.

Doc's eyes wandered around the dimly-lit room. Heavy, rough-woven blankets had been nailed over the two windows, allowing only a trickle of muted daylight to filter through. The house was small, the main room serving as focal point, encompassing both, living and dining areas. Although most of the furniture was old and well worn, the interior appeared clean and well-maintained and didn't exactly give the impression of having been abandoned. A table, covered by a red and white checkered table cloth sat at the center of the room, surrounded by four chairs. A stone-built fireplace with a rough hewn log mantle took up the greater part of the wall to his right. Boxes filled with supplies were stacked in one corner of the kitchen nook to his left and a coffee pot, along with two cups, was sitting on the big cast-iron stove.

Upon closer inspection, he learned that the coffee, though cold by now, was still fairly fresh. Doc scrubbed at his mustache, not sure what to make of it all.

As he began to look around some more, he now noticed that there were two more doors in the back of the house.

But to his disappointment, the two small bedrooms turned out to be empty as well. One showed definite signs of having been occupied recently while the other appeared to have not been used in a while.

At a loss, Doc turned and headed back outside.

"Golly, I just don't understand this, Kitty," he said, thoughtfully rubbing his mustache, "there's nobody here."

Kitty could see a faint glimmer of uneasiness in his eyes.

"Well, where do you suppose everyone is?" she wondered.

Doc shoved his hands down into the pockets of his trousers.

"I wish I could tell you," he said slowly, thoughtfully as he skimmed his gaze over the yard again.

"You mean our uncle ain't here?" Rory now piped up from beside the buggy where he sat squatting on his haunches, petting the fat tabby cat.

Doc pulled out a hand and scratched his ear.

"That's sure the way it looks, son," he said and then turned to Kitty again. "Well, we're here, so we might as well wait...I got a feelin' they haven't gone too far."

Kitty agreed. It certainly would be foolish to turn around and go back to Dodge now.

"Do you think they'd mind if we wait inside?" she asked, fanning her heated face with her hand, "I sure like to get out of the sun for a while."

Doc pursed his lip and shrugged.

"Hmm...I don't see why they should. Here, why don't you let me take her?" He reached up and carefully lifted the sleeping child from her lap. Then he held out his other hand to assist Kitty off the buggy.

"You go on ahead," he said after he had passed Carrie back into her waiting arms, "Rory can help me unhitch the buggy." He turned to the little boy beside him and placed a hand on his small shoulder. "How about givin' me a hand, son?"

The boy stuck his thumbs in the straps of his trousers and straightened to his full height of an impressive three foot and eleven inches.

"Yes sir, doc," he replied, eager to please. His head was bopping enthusiastically on his skinny neck, causing Doc and Kitty to exchange an amused glance.

While the physician and Rory were tending to the horse, Kitty began to inspect the interior of the small house. It was indeed very clean and well kept and she found it quite inviting--except for the blankets that were nailed over the windows. It didn't take her long and she had taken them down, allowing the bright spray of afternoon sunlight to flood the inside of the house.

Satisfied, she turned her attention back to the little girl who was sitting on the colorful hearth rug, playing with her doll. Kitty bent and scooped her up into her arms.

"Well, come on, Carrie," she said, "let's see if we can't get us some water to wash that dust off."

"Dusty," the toddler confirmed solemnly as she waved a little hand in front of her face and wrinkled a stubby little nose that was covered with as many freckles as Kitty's.

Carrie's action brought forth a little chuckle.

"Yes," the redhead agreed affectionately, gently tapping her on the nose, "we're both pretty dusty. Your aunt and uncle are gonna be here soon and I think we ladies oughtta make ourselves a little presentable."

_x_

But as the afternoon began to slowly and surely slide into evening, it became increasingly clear to Doc and Kitty that maybe the Crandall's might not return so soon after all.

Outside, the dome of the sky was a deep, true blue with the sunlight slanting steeply down from the west. It lit the little homestead with a soft, golden light.

The doctor's face showed concern as he finally turned from the window. He extricated a hand from the pocket of his rumpled trousers and scrubbed it across his chin.

"Golly, I figured, they'd be back by now," he muttered to no one in particular.

He pulled out his pocket watch, as he had done so many times already, and checked the time once more. With a shake of his head, he snapped the cover shut again and returned the time piece to his vest pocket.

Kitty glanced up from the table where she sat with Carrie in her lap, reading to her from a children's book she had purchased at Jonas' store this morning.

"You sure, you don't have any idea where they could have gone to?" she wondered.

Doc shook his head once more.

"Kitty, if I could tell you, I could tell myself," he replied.

"You know, if you ask me, I find this rather strange."

The physician nodded in agreement. "So do I,...golly, so do I."

She lowered her voice a little, not wanting Rory who was sitting outside on the porch, to overhear her next words.

"Do you think it's possible that something happened to them?"

Doc gave her words brief consideration.

"Well," he said at last, his voice measured and low, "I sure hope not--but we can't rule it out either."

The thought had crossed his mind before, but having seen no evidence of a struggle anywhere, he had quickly put the unsettling notion to rest.

"You know, I better go and hitch up, we might as well head on back into Dodge--there's no sense in us waitin' around here any longer.

Kitty agreed.

"Yes, and I think we oughtta let Matt know about this, Doc," she replied, her uneasy glance meeting the doctor's.

Doc nodded.

"Kitty, why don't you go ahead and write a note to let the Crandall's know where they can find those young'uns, just in case."

"Sure, I'll see to it," Kitty assured him. Her eyes followed him as he walked from the house.

"Well," she then said to Carrie, setting the book aside, "looks like Ma Smalley's gonna get to enjoy your company for another night after all."

Little did Kitty know that this wasn't about to happen.

_to be continued..._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

_x_

It hadn't taken Doc long to hitch the horse to the buggy but by the time he had finally pulled the vehicle up to the house, the sun had already fallen below the western horizon, filling the sky with glowing echoes of orange and red. In the east, the light was quickly fading, the sky changing from silver to velvet black as the dusk began to settle over the prairie.

"Well, you about ready, Kitty?" he wondered as he stuck his head through the door moments later.

At the summons, Kitty looked up.

"Just about," she replied.

She had just finished jotting the note to the Crandall's and was now reading it over. Satisfied, she folded it neatly and placed it in the middle of the table where it could be found easily.

After casting the interior of the house one final, inspecting glance to make sure that everything was left the way they had found it, she gathered the children and blew out the light.

She was about to usher the youngsters out onto the porch when Doc suddenly stiffened and grew still.

Kitty cast him an inquiring glance, about to ask him what was wrong when he held up his hand in an abrupt gesture for silence. His breath hissed out through his teeth.

"Sshh--"

He stood frozen, completely alert as he listened intently, his gaze focused on some point off in the distance.

Lifting little Carrie into her arms, Kitty urged both children to remain silent and stilled to listen as well.

Now she could hear it, too.

Carried clearly on the evening air, she could discern the approaching strike of hooves--not a wagon, she realized--just hooves.

Doc's searching eyes scanned the western slope and quickly picked out a group of several riders coming down the incline at a good pace, riding purposefully. There was no mistaking their destination; they were heading straight towards the house.

"Who do you suppose they are?" wondered Kitty uneasily.

The note of alarm in her voice--even though very slight--communicated itself directly to the children. Carrie automatically tightened her grasp on Kitty's arm while Rory moved closer to her side, clutching a handful of her skirts.

The physician shook his head slightly, never taking his eyes off the approaching riders.

"I don't know, Kitty" he answered her, "but maybe you'd better take those two an' go back inside. I'll see what they want."

He took a quick swipe at his mustache and then slipped his hand back down into his pocket as he stepped up to the edge of the porch.

Kitty gathered the children closer. Whoever they were out there, she had a feeling that it wasn't the Crandall's. She also knew that Doc was thinking along those same lines--the look of worry on his face hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Be careful, Doc," she said before the door clicked softly shut.

Doc nodded absently, running a hand through his unruly, graying hair. No, it definitely wasn't the Crandall's as he had hoped. He thought it highly unlikely that Mrs.Crandall would travel on horseback.

Besides, he remembered having seen a buckboard sitting beside the barn the last time he had been out here. It was gone now.

Whoever they were, he hoped they were just passing through and not in search of trouble.

With the glow of the setting sun reflected in the depths of his blue eyes, he waited for the riders to come.

_x_

Gravel crunched loudly under the horses' shod hooves as the small group passed the crude split-log fence that bordered the perimeter of the yard a short while later.

They reined their mounts down to a walk and Doc was now able to discern that there were three of them. Although it was difficult to make out their faces with the dying sun at their backs, he was pretty certain that these men weren't familiar to him.

The realization caused him to tense slightly and his thoughts turned to Kitty and the children again. _What would he do if their intentions weren't peaceful? _Very little, he realized, there was very little he would be able to do. It was a disturbing notion that left him deeply worried.

The trio now drew rein a few yards from the porch. The last of the sunlight sparkled on the guns strapped low to the men's hips as their horses shuffled and milled beneath them, smelling the water in the big, rectangular trough beside the porch.

Doc felt a shudder run down his back; one look at them in the gathering gloom told him immediately that these men were not to be crossed.

The largest of the three was a strapping man with a barrel chest and massive arms. He carried himself with the cocky confidence of one who had never been intimidated by anything or anybody. A man who took what he wanted and walked over, not around others. A badly healed, fleshy scar, grotesquely disfiguring his hard features, added to the dangerous air he had about him.

The one riding to his left was a lanky, ruddy-faced cowboy with sand-colored hair peeking out from underneath a brown hat which had clearly seen better days. The smaller, dark-haired one wearing a black, flat-brimmed hat, made Doc immediately think of a predator shrewdly measuring its prey.

But before the doctor had a chance to dwell on his observtion any further, the big stranger raised a hand, motioning the others to stay behind while he nudged his chestnut mare closer to the porch.

The silence weighed heavily between them for a moment as the man's black, piercing eyes inventoried the physician thoroughly.

"Mind if we water our horses, old man?" he then drawled at last by way of greeting.

Doc instantly disliked the man. He bristled at the insolent address but forced down the urge to retort. Not able to think of any good reason to refuse the stranger's request, he gave a clipped nod in the direction of the recently filled water trough sitting beside the porch steps.

"Help yourself," he said curtly. Although the stranger seemed quiet and contained, the doctor thought that he sensed a dangerous tension in him.

After sparing Doc a brief nod of thanks, the man tossed a backwards glance over his shoulder, signaling the others and then dismounted.

Doc felt a trickle of uneasiness as he watched the men walk their horses over to the trough. He dearly hoped that water was all they wanted.

"Nice place you got here," the scar-faced one now remarked, his shifty gaze roving over the barn and corral before coming to rest on the main house.

"Thank you," replied Doc simply, figuring it better to leave the man to believe that this was his homestead.

As his horse continued to drink its fill, the cowboy checked the cinch strap and then turned to the doctor again.

"Say, old man," he said, scrubbing a huge palm across a chin that hadn't been touched by a razor in several days, "you ever hear of a fella by the name of Dillon? He's s'posed to be the law in Dodge."

Ignoring the insulting address, Doc's eyes narrowed suspiciously. There was a look of cold calculation in the dark depths of the other's eyes, and he realized that this man wasn't just making polite conversation.

"Yes, I heard of him," he replied guardedly, wisely keeping to himself the fact that he actually knew him quite well.

The stranger pulled a long cheroot from his vest and chewed off the tip. He spat it on the ground, his dark eyes regarding the doctor speculatively.

"I heard he's mighty handy with a gun--"

Doc shoved one hand back down into his pocket and scratched his ear with the other. He wanted to know why this man seemed so interested in Matt but decided against asking, afraid it might make the other suspicious.

"Folks do a lot of talkin'," he replied vaguely instead.

A thin smile touched the corners of the man's mouth as he contemplated the doctor.

"I bet they do," he said slowly as he struck a lucifer off the flank of his saddle. He cupped the flame in his hand as he lowered the cheroot to it, letting it catch hold. Then he snapped out the match and dropped it to the ground.

In no apparent hurry to speak, he took a deep draw off the smoke and let it out slowly, watching as it curled past his face.

"Say, old man," he then said, fixing Doc with his penetrating stare again, "I don't think I got your name--"

The simple statement and the casual tone of his voice didn't conceal his demand for an answer.

Doc was well aware of it.

"My name's Adams," he volunteered after brief hesitation, purposely leaving out the title hinting at his profession. He knew that he had to be careful with his words and chose them with caution, not willing to volunteer any more information than necessary. "And I don't think, I recall you givin' me your name, mister," he then added, unable to help himself from being a little ornery.

The man's eyes narrowed. He stared at Doc for some seconds.

"They call me Biggs...Dan Biggs," he then said, allowing a dangerous edge to enter his voice.

He watched the doctor's eyes for any kind of sign and wasn't disappointed; a visible flicker of recognition flitted across Doc's face at the mentioning of the name.

Biggs grinned.

"Looks like you heard of me before--" he said, his eyes still appraising the doctor.

Doc snorted in disgust. Though he had never seen Dan Biggs in person, he certainly knew him by his reputation.

"By golly, yes...I heard about you," he replied, frowning deeply.

He had no trouble recalling the many stories he had heard at the Long Branch, telling of the despicable deeds of the Biggs brothers. He also remembered how frightened people had been when Jim, Dan's younger brother had rode into Dodge about a month ago. For two days, the young man had thrown his weight around and Matt had stood by patiently, keeping a close eye on him. Finally, on the night of the second day it had happened. Feeling that he had been cheated at cards, Jim had goaded the accused into a fight, in the course of which, Matt--who head been called to intervene, had been forced to shoot the younger Biggs after he had foolishly drawn his gun on him.

It didn't take much for Doc to put two and two together--Dan Biggs had come for Matt.

"What's the matter...scared, old man?" grinned Biggs.

His comment drew chuckles from the other two.

Doc rubbed a hand across his mustache, his gaze meeting Biggs' levelly.

"I'm too old to be scared, mister."

With a snort, Biggs collected the reins and boarded his horse again. Now he was eye level with the doctor on the porch. A sneer contorted his disfigured face.

"You'd be wise to be a little scared, Adams," he said quietly, "you might live longer that way."

Before Doc had a chance to probe the remark for meaning, he saw the sneer on Biggs' face suddenly falter.

The outlaw's eyes slid past the doctor and came to rest on the front door.

"Well, I'll be--" he said with a low whistle of appreciation at the sight of the young woman who stood framed in the doorway.

"Howdy, ma'am," he drawled, lazily touching the brim of his grubby hat in a greeting as he swept Kitty's body with insolent directness.

But the pretty redhead was neither impressed nor intimidated. If working in saloons for most of her adult life had taught her anything, it was how to deal with the likes of Biggs.

She lodged her hands on her slim hips, her blue eyes glittering coldly.

"Who are you men and what do you want?" she demanded tightly as she stepped up to Doc's side who clearly wasn't too happy with her appearance.

Biggs' lips contorted in a leering grin, his appreciative gaze still on Kitty.

"I gotta hand it to you, Adams," he said, a hint of reluctant admiration in his voice, "I'm impressed...how'd an old codger like you manage to get himself a purdy wife like that?"

For the briefest of moments, Doc's eye widened in surprise, the other's assumption having come completely unexpected, then just as quickly, his bristly brows snapped together in a frown.

"Now you look here," he started to say as he thrust an angry finger at the outlaw, "for your infor--"

But he didn't get any further; the sudden pressure of Kitty's hand on his arm causing him to break off and glance at her uncomprehendingly.

She tilted her chin defiantly and glared up at Biggs.

"I don't see where it's any of your business, mister," she said stiffly.

Biggs leaned forward in the saddle, bracing his beefy hands on the pommel.

Maybe I wouldn't mind makin' it my business, red," he challenged softly, a distinctly wicked gleam entering his eyes.

Although she had to admit that the look in his eyes was more than just a little unsettling, Kitty refused to yield beneath his arrogant gaze.

Right away, Doc smelled trouble.

"Kitty," he said, clearing his throat, "don't you--don't you'd better go an' see after those young'uns?" He motioned with his head in the direction of the door, hoping to get her back into the house and out of sight before something bad would happen.

"Kitty, eh?" Biggs now chuckled, his grin offsetting her frown, "now if that ain't a purdy name for a purdy lady."

The redhead shot him a look that probably would have killed--if any such thing was possible. She was about to open her mouth in a retort, but the doctor beat her to it.

"Now just take it easy," he reminded her quickly, afraid that her famous temper might get the better of her and only make matters worse.

Biggs chuckled.

"Got spunk that one, Crandall--I bet she's quite a handful." His appraising eyes roamed over Kitty's body again. "A good thrashin' once in a while should take 'em wild oats outta her," he then added, the remark clearly suggesting that he wouldn't mind being the one administering it.

The implication was not lost on Kitty and her face darkened with disgust. She was sorely tempted to tell the man to get the hell out of here but she reluctantly pulled herself together when she caught the silent warning in the doctor's eyes.

_Don't. _

She clamped her lips shut, but her expression remained one of utter disapproval.

Doc definitely felt the same by now. He would have loved nothing more than to tell Biggs that he was the one in need of a good thrashing, but knowing that it most likely would only make matter worse, he curbed the impulse to do so.

"Go, go on now," he urged Kitty instead. His voice was soft but his hand on her back was insistent as he nudged her forward towards the door.

Undeterred by the doctor's lack of response, Biggs shrugged indifferently.

"Suit yourself then--it's your wife," he told him, "wouldn't let ma woman treat me this way though--"

"I bet," muttered Doc under his breath as he held the door for Kitty.

It didn't take much to realize that Biggs was the type who saw women as little more than a man's property do to with as he pleased. The notion was quite unsettling and he thought it all the more reason for Kitty to stay out of sight until the men had departed.

"Hey, wait a minute!"

The sudden exclamation coming from one of Biggs' men stopped Doc and Kitty in their tracks. All eyes moved to the tall, ruddy-faced cowboy who had spoken them.

"What's the matter, Stanton?" gruffed Biggs, his dark eyes narrowing in irritation.

Stanton nudged his horse closer to the porch. He flicked his worn hat back and eyed Kitty with interest.

"Say, red," he now ventured grinning, "don't I know you from somewhere?"

Much to Doc's dismay, Kitty stopped and turned. She folded her arms over her chest, looking the cowboy squarely in the eye.

"I highly doubt it," she retorted stiffly.

Kiley chuckled in response, but that didn't discourage Stanton any. His face screwed up in thought, he chewed intently on the inside of his cheek for moment. Suddenly, his expression lit up.

"I know," he exclaimed, snapping his fingers.

"You know_what_?" demanded Biggs, his patience waning.

Stanton was grinning broadly now, revealing a row of yellow, chipped teeth. He pointed a long, spindly finger straight at Kitty.

"I remember where I seen her," he sputtered, "it was last spring, she's at the Long Branch in Dodge."

"A saloon gal?" Biggs asked, apparently not quite understanding. His uncomprehending gaze shifted from the man beside him to Kitty and then to Doc. Somehow this Adams didn't strike him as a man who'd pick his wife in a saloon.

Stanton shook his head impatiently.

"That ain't just any saloon gal, Biggs," he went on to clarify, "that's Kitty Russell, she owns half the place."

He paused, raising his brows. "An' that ain't all," he then added importantly, "I heard she's mighty friendly with the Marshal--"

At the mentioning of the lawman, Kitty paled visibly, her confident demeanor faltering ever so slightly.

The leather creaked sharply as Biggs straightened in his saddle, the cold remains of the cheroot dangling from his lip.

"You mean Dillon?"

"That sure as hell's right," the red-cheeked fellow confirmed eagerly.

Biggs didn't speak right away. Working the cheroot between his thick lips, he contemplated Kitty for a short moment before speaking.

"That true, red?"

Kitty put on her best poker face--something she had also learned quite early on and that had served her well over the years.

"I don't know what he's talking about," she replied coolly.

Her words brought a scowl to Stanton's ruddy face.

"Oh, come on, lady, you ain't foolin' me...I seen you with that big Marshal! "

"He's lying," retorted Kitty promptly.

"You watch yourself, lady," hissed Stanton in return. He turned to Biggs. "She's the one who's lyin', Dan!"

A growing sense of irritation began to burgeon in Doc's mind. He dropped a protective arm around Kitty's shoulder.

"Why don't you men just get outta here an' leave us be," he groused angrily. He already knew that his words would most likely fall on deaf ears, but that didn't stop him from trying.

Dan Biggs threw the doctor a condescending glance and then leaned forward, folding his hands over the horn of his saddle.

He eyed Kitty with an expression of intrigued speculation.

"So," he mused slowly, "you're Dillon's woman--"

Then his mouth twisted into a dangerous smile.

"Boys...I think we're gonna stay a little while..."

_to be continued..._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_x_

"_Blow wind your ice an' snow, blow your_ _du-hust an' on you go...an' all the we-eds grow aroun'...an' dad-dy lies a-lone..."_

The song was flowing easily from Chester's lips, mingling with the sizzling of the eggs frying in a skillet on the small pot-bellied stove. Outside, in the east, the first hint of light had just begun to touch the sky, too early for most of Dodge to be stirring yet, but the jailer was already up and about, had even brewed a fresh pot of coffee in anticipation of the Marshal's return.

Chester had no sooner finished the last note, than he heard the familiar clacking of boots outside on the floor planks of the porch. A short moment later, the door to the jail swung open.

He looked up.

"Oh, howdy, Mister Dillon," he said cheerfully, watching as the Marshal entered, "sure's good to have you back."

Matt closed the door behind himself, the signs of a long, sleepless night etched on his face.

"Well, it's good to be back, Chester," he muttered tiredly. He hung his dusty Stetson on its customary peg by the door and then went to restore the Winchester to the rifle rack.

Chester's gaze followed him.

"How'd things go over at Anderson's?" he wondered, "d'you finally get them fellas?"

At the question, Matt's fingers ceased fumbling with the buckle of his gunbelt.

"Well, we stayed on their trail for about fifteen miles then we lost their tracks somewhere around Turkey Bend an' had to turn around." He paused to hang the holster by his cot and then finished, now sounding a little annoyed, "and as always--no sign of the missin' cattle and nobody's seen or heard anything."

Chester shook his head as he poked at the eggs.

"Well, I swan, that just don't make no sense at all."

Matt laced a hand through his dust-streaked hair and expelled a frustrated whuff of air.

"Tell me about it."

Deciding that the eggs were done, Chester exchanged the skillet for the chipped coffee pot.

"Ya know, Mister Dillon," he now mused, "it sure wouldn't surprise me none if that Callum-fella's the one that's doin' all the rustlin'. I mean ev'ry time he's in town he's throwin' around his money, an' that's gotta be more than a man could make with just workin' cattle."

Matt nodded.

"Yeah, I noticed that, too, but that sure doesn't help me any--unless I have proof. "

He scrubbed a hand over his face, realizing how dirty he was. A day's worth of grime and sweat had congealed to a scale-like crust on his skin. He was filthy and hungry, not to mention extremely tired.

"Well, I s'pose that's true," muttered Chester thoughtfully as he checked the coffee.

Matt trudged over to the wash basin and poured some fresh water from the pitcher. The cool liquid felt good on his skin as he began to scrub the gritty layer of dust and sweat from his arms and face. Bending over the bowl, he then lowered his cupped hands into the water and rubbed a few more handfuls into his hair in an attempt to rid it of the dust that seemed to be clinging to it rather stubbornly.

Feeling and looking at least somewhat cleaner, he bent his knees a little to get a glimpse of himself in the small mirror that was mounted above the wash basin. He frowned at his reflection and made himself a mental note that a haircut was definitely in order. With swift strokes of his comb, he began to coax the damp curls into submission.

"Why don't you just sit down an' make yourself comfortable," suggested Chester when he saw that the Marshal was finished, "you sure look all wore out there."

Matt managed a tired smile as he eased himself down into the chair behind his battered oak desk.

"Well, let me tell ya," he muttered, "that's just about how I feel."

He picked up yesterday's mail and began to leaf through it without much interest. He already knew his paycheck hadn't come again--if it had, Chester would have mentioned it by now.

"I don't s'pose we got anything from Washington?" he then wondered anyway.

Chester shook his head.

"No, sir...not a thing."

Matt sighed. "Figures."

He tossed the stack of mail onto the desktop. Hooking his left ankle over his right knee, he leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers behind his head and, for a moment, allowed his tired eyes to close.

_Maybe it was about time he sent a telegram to the War Department_, _reminding them that a certain Marshal in Dodge City hadn't been paid it almost a month._

"Oh, Mister Dillon," Chester suddenly broke into his musings, "I wanna show you a circular that come in yesterday."

He quickly began to flip through the stack of wanted posters and pulled out a particular one.

"Here, take a look at that--"

Matt took the sheet from Chester's outstretched hand and quickly glanced at it, immediately recognizing the man pictured on it.

"Well, I s'pose we better send the Sheriff in Pueblo a telegram to let him know that we got Jim Biggs here on Boot Hill."

He dropped the circular back down onto the desk and rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on.

_One gone, two to take his place_, he found himself thinking wearily. Sometimes it seemed to him that Dodge was drawing the likes of Biggs like a mudhole the mosquito.

"I'll do it for you," offered Chester helpfully, "you just sit there and relax, I'll get you some coffee here right aways."

The Marshal stretched out his long legs to cross his booted feet.

"Good...I sure could use some," he murmured as he relaxed back in his chair again. He watched as his assistant poured coffee for them both and then handed him one of the chipped china mugs.

Tired as he was, the strong, hot brew tasted all the better to Matt.

"A fresh pot, huh," he remarked pleasantly surprised after the first sip. Palming the cup in a callused hand, he regarded its inky black contents appreciatively.

Chester had the interesting habit of re-using the coffee grounds, making the coffee taste worse with each passing day to the point of eventually being undrinkable. Of course, that wasn't how Chester saw it; he was quite proud of his method and never hesitated to share it with anybody--whether they wanted to hear it or not.

"Made it freshly this mornin'," the young man volunteered proudly, happy that the Marshal had noticed.

Outside, the sun had finally risen and Dodge was slowly coming to life. A lone wagon rattled down a still deserted Front Street, the clomping of hooves and rattling of wheels carrying loudly on the crisp morning air.

"Say," Matt now wanted to know, feeling somewhat revived after a couple more sips, "how did Doc an' Kitty make out at the Crandall's yesterday?"

Chester lowered his cup, suddenly realizing that he hadn't seen either one of them since they had left yesterday morning.

"Well...to tell you the truth...I don't rightly know, Mister Dillon," he said thoughtfully.

Surprise flickered in the Marshal's eyes.

"Weren't you over at the Long Branch last night?"

"Well, yeah, but I ain't seen Miss Kitty there--"

Matt straightened in his chair. "What do you mean, you didn't see her?"

"Well, I reckon she could've been there," the young man now relented with a shrug, "it was kinda crowded there last night an' I didn't stay around for very long...you know, on account of havin' to make the rounds an' all."

"How about Doc?" wondered Matt.

Chester thought on it briefly and then shook his head. "No...I ain't seen him either--"

The words brought a slight frown to the Marshal's face. Shoving the battered cup onto the edge of the desk, he leaned forward in his chair, and splayed his palms onto the desk. His chair scraped against the plank boards, screeching in protest as he rose to his feet.

"Well, I guess, I better go an' see about it."

Just then, the door was opened again. The bright rays of the early morning sun spilled into the office and painted a square of yellow light onto the worn plank flooring which was swallowed up seconds later by a large shadow as it now filled the doorway.

It was Bill Pence.

"Mornin', Marshal...Chester," the co-owner of the Long Branch greeted the two men with an acknowledging tip of his head after he had closed the door behind himself.

Pence was a capable-looking man in his forties with a friendly face that was set off by a handlebar mustache, thick sideburns and a shock of bristly brown hair that was mottled liberally with streaks of gray.

The concerned expression on his face immediately drew Matt's attention.

"Somethin' wrong, Bill?" he wondered suspiciously.

Pence hesitated, cupping his chin as if searching for the proper words.

"Well," he then began slowly, "frankly...I'm gettin' to be a little worried about Kitty."

"About Kitty?" repeated Matt, his relaxed manner suddenly gone. He stepped out from behind the desk.

Pence nodded, his gaze moving between Matt and Chester.

"I haven't seen her since she left town with Doc yesterday...I thought one of you might know where she is."

Matt didn't like what he was hearing. The tightening in the pit of his stomach got worse.

"Well, did you think to check her room?" he wondered, "maybe they just came in late--"

Pence shrugged, his mouth scrunching to the side.

"I knocked a couple of times," he said, "but I didn't try to go in when there was no answer."

Chester looked from Pence to the Marshal, his own face now creased with worry.

"You know, Mister Dillon," he said, "that sure don't seem like Miss Kitty--"

Matt shook his head slowly, pressing his lips together.

"No,...no, it sure doesn't," he conceded thoughtfully.

"Chester," he said as he reached for his gunbelt, "I want you to go an' see if you can't find Doc. I'm goin' over to the Long Branch with Bill here. I'll meet you there."

"Yes, sir," acknowledged the young man, and, wasting no time, he hastily snatched his hat and hurried out the door.

Matt snagged his own hat off its peg with a sharp, swift movement and jammed it on.

"Let's go," he said tightly as he held the door, ushering Pence outside.

He was extremely anxious to find out where Kitty and Doc were.

_x_

A painful stiffness, as she tried turning her head, brought Kitty abruptly out of a dreamless sleep. For a few drowsy moments she believed that she was in her room back at the Long Branch.

Safe, secure--

She raised her head off her forearms, immediately stifling a groan as her neck muscles protested the shift in position.

_What was she doing, sleeping at a table?_

She blinked and then glanced around in momentary confusion. The memory didn't elude her for very long, reality quickly shattering the comforting illusion.

The night had been a long one. Biggs had allowed her to put the children down in one of the bedrooms and then had claimed the remaining bedroom for himself, leaving her and Doc to spent the night sitting at the table. With the other two men taking turns guarding her and the doctor, Kitty had been reluctant to close her eyes. But now she realized that she must have dozed off after all.

Slowly, she straightened in her chair. Her body felt sore from the uncomfortable sleeping position and she took a moment to coax the stiffness from her muscles. There was a crick in her shoulder that spread roots halfway down her back. Splaying her fingers beneath the collar of her blouse, she carefully massaged the corded skin and twisted her neck to the side.

Gentle snores coming from across the table caused her to glance over at Doc; apparently, he, too had finally succumbed to sleep.

Slouched in his chair, he had his arms crossed over his chest, his chin dipped forward. She turned her gaze to the window. Outside, the weak light of the pre-dawn was painting the gray sky in pale shades of pink and orange along the horizon, indicating that the sunrise wasn't too far off.

Sitting in a high-backed rocking chair by the fireplace, the cowboy, Biggs had referred to as Stanton yesterday, grinned when he saw that she was awake.

"You up early, red," he snickered, "what's the matter, not used to sleepin' at a table? Miss that Marshal friend of yours?"

Kitty face darkened at his words, but she afforded him no more than a quick, cold glance and didn't bother with an answer.

But that didn't seem to deter Stanton any.

"Don't worry, you'll see him soon enough--dead." He chuckled at his joke and then began to pat down his pockets in search of his tobacco pouch.

Kitty fought down the temptation to retort, knowing that it would most likely only provoke him, something that could potentially endanger the children. So far, the men hadn't bothered much with Rory and Carrie and she wanted to keep it that way if possible. Her thoughts now turned to the two youngsters. Listening for any sounds coming from the bedroom, she assured herself that they were still asleep.

With a soft sigh, she rubbed her aching temples, wondering and fearing what the new day would bring.

Although she wasn't exactly afraid of him, Dan Biggs was definitely a force to be reckoned with. He had made it very clear last night that he wanted Matt. He had also made very clear that he would use whatever means necessary to accomplish his goal.

Doc had pointed out that the Marshal had left Dodge, might not even be back for several days, but it had fallen on deaf ears.

_Kill him. Kill Matt._

The thought sent a sudden surge of anger flashing through her. Dodge City was a better place because of Matt, it was a safer place because he put his life on the line day after day to protect it from men like Biggs and his brother.

_No, Dan Biggs had to be stopped_.

She couldn't allow Matt to walk into Biggs' trap--she'd never be able to live with the guilt if anything were to happen to him because of her. Kitty's face firmed with resolve. She wasn't quite sure how to go about it yet, but she would think of something.

She pushed the chair back and rose to her feet.

Right away, Stanton straightened in the rocker. He leveled his colt on her, regarding her suspiciously.

"Hey,...what d'you think you're doin'?" he demanded.

Kitty met his gaze completely unflustered.

"I'm gonna check on the children," she replied calmly, "I thought I heard one of them."

The cowboy's forehead creased as he listened for a moment. Not hearing anything, he shrugged at last.

"Well, go on, red," he said, jerking his head towards the door, "but don't you try nothin' on me now--"

Kitty arched a brow.

"I wouldn't dare," she replied dryly, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Luckily, her tone went straight over Stanton's head. Had Doc been awake, he would have known immediately that she was up to something.

Quietly, so as not to wake the youngsters, Kitty entered the bedroom. It was the one the Crandall's used. Carrie and Rory were still sound asleep on the big brass bed, wrapped up snugly in a colorful quilt.

Kitty's eyes began to scan the neat but plainly decorated room. She wasn't sure what she was looking for--all she knew was that she couldn't take too much time or Stanton would become suspicious.

Her gaze fell on the big chest of drawers. People were known to keep all kinds of things in dressers; linen, clothing, personal effects and sometimes, even guns.

Much to her disappointment, the first drawer contained nothing more than several stacks of crisply starched linens and pillow slips. Kitty closed it carefully and turned her attention to the second one. She determined quickly that it held only some neatly folded shirts and unionsuits--no doubt, Mr. Crandall's.

Carefully, she pushed the drawer shut.

Two more to go.

Kitty pulled open the third one. More stacks of folded linens greeted her. A wave of disappointment washed over her. She was about to close the drawer again, when her eyes suddenly noticed the strange bulge underneath one of the smaller stacks in the back.

After stealing a quick glance towards the doorway to assure herself that Stanton wasn't watching, she reached inside the drawer. Her heart was thumping with anticipation as her fingers curved around something cool, metallic. When her hand emerged seconds later, she couldn't believe her luck; it was an old army pistol.

She was no expert when it came to guns, but the .36 caliber army colt, although clean and free of rust, looked as if it hadn't been fired in a number of years. It didn't matter though, it would have to do, Kitty decided. It would be risky, but she also knew that her life, as well as Doc's and the children's wouldn't be worth a plug nickel once Biggs had Matt. She didn't believe for one minute that those men would allow four witnesses to go free. Quickly, she shoved the gun beneath her blouse, securing it in the waistband of her skirt.

When she returned to the main room moments later, she found Doc awake at the table. He glanced up at her inquiringly but Kitty shook her head ever so slightly.

luckily, the physician caught on and maintained, albeit reluctantly, his silence.

"Do you mind if I make some coffee?" Kitty now ventured, giving Stanton her most innocent smile.

Doc regarded her with a puzzled frown. He had known Kitty too long not to notice when she was up to something.

But Stanton didn't see anything wrong with her query. One foot perched on the seat of the rocker, he had his gun hand casually draped across his thigh.

"Why, sure," he said with a grin, "just so's long you don't poison it." He didn't mind a good cup of coffee--especially after the long night of keeping watch.

Kitty graced him with a smile that didn't quite make it to her eyes

_Now there's an idea_, she thought to herself, at the same time seriously wondering what the Crandall's had stashed away in their kitchen cabinets that might possibly qualify as poison.

Soon, a fresh pot of coffee was brewing on the big cast-iron stove, its enticing aroma wafting through the house. Dan Biggs and the other man, Kiley were still asleep in the adjoining bedroom.

Tired of sitting, the physician pushed his chair back. The chair legs scraped across the waxed plank floor, startling Stanton into jerking his gun up.

"Hey, what're fixin' to do?" he demanded immediately as he trained the colt squarely at the doctor's chest.

Doc sniffed in annoyance, rubbing at his bristly mustache.

"I'm gettin' a drink of water," he replied irascibly and then added, fixing the cowboy with a dark look, "providin' that's all right with you--"

Figuring himself too old to be intimidated by this young man, he didn't bother waiting for permission and commenced to shuffle towards the kitchen nook.

In truth, he wasn't really all that thirsty--he wanted to know what Kitty was up to. He had recognized her expression at once as her particular brand of dangerous inspiration.

Stanton didn't make any attempts at stopping him and a moment later, the doctor was standing beside Kitty at the stove, helping himself to a slow drink of lukewarm water from the dipper.

"_Doc." _

Kitty's whisper was laced with enough urgency to make him glance over at her inquiringly.

His eyes slowly followed her hand as it partially slipped beneath the waistband of her skirt. He snorted into the dipper, almost choking on the water when he saw what her hand was holding as she pulled it out again seconds later.

He cast her an uncomprehending glance, wanting to know where she had gotten the pistol from, but he knew better than to ask her. There was no need to take a guess as to what she was going to do with it either--it was quite obvious.

Kitty stole a quick, cautious glance at Stanton. Apparently not too concerned with his two prisoners, he had begun to roll himself a smoke and wasn't paying much attention to Doc and Kitty.

Before the startled doctor could say anything, Kitty had inched closer to him and pressed the gun into his hand.

Doc's own eyes darted over to the outlaw and he hastily stuffed the gun underneath his vest.

"Hmm, that sure smells good, red," remarked Stanton now as he came strolling over to the stove, the lit shuck dangling from his lip, "I didn't think one like you knew how to make a decent cup of coffee."

Ignoring the insulting remark, Kitty pulled away from Doc.

"Oh, there are a lotta thing that you don't know," she said meaningfully and then raised a brow, smiling sweetly as she lifted the coffee pot. "How about some?"

Stanton grinned.

"Don't mind if I do."

Encouraged by her smile, he holstered up his gun and came closer. A little too close for Kitty's comfort as she felt his rough palm slide down her arm. She flinched but bit back the urge to pull away when she realized that Doc had already moved behind him.

"Get those hands up, mister," the doctor hissed a split-second later, "and don't you make a sound, or, by golly, I swear, I'm gonna shot!"

For moment, it appeared as if Stanton was complying.

Slowly he raised his hands until they were suspended in mid-air. The next second, he was suddenly twisting around, grabbing hold of the physician's gun hand. His strong grip forced the doctor's hand aside while he used the other to pry the pistol from his grasp. A savage grin split his lips as he stared Doc straight in the eye.

"Nice try, old man," he hissed, spittle spraying from his lips, "but not good enough--"

Kitty quickly overcame her initial shock and wasn't one to stand by idly. Her eyes spied the big cast-iron skillet sitting on the stove. Without hesitation, she picked it up and two-handedly, sent it crashing down onto Stanton's head.

The blow felled him in an instant and he crumpled to the floor.

For the briefest of moments, Doc and Kitty's gazes locked, then they simultaneously moved their eyes down to Stanton, now sprawled motionless, face down on the kitchen floor. Their eyes met again.

"Get the children, Kitty...hurry," whispered Doc urgently as he bent down to reach for Stanton's colt.

There was no way back now--they had to get out of here before the others woke up.

"Better stay where you are, Kitty--"

They both froze at the sound of Biggs' coldly spoken words.

_to be continued..._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"Well,...Doc ain't at his office, that's for sure," reported Chester as he came limping up onto the boardwalk in front of the Long Branch ten minutes later. "How about Miss Kitty? You find her?"

Matt stood, his hands braced on his hips, his eyes absently following a lone horse and rider passing by the saloon. The cowboy's body swayed easily with the motion of his big, dark-colored horse, his rein-holding hand resting loosely over the saddle horn.

"No," he replied slowly, scrubbing a hand across his stubbly chin, "no, she wasn't in her room an' by the looks of it, hasn't been there all night." His voice was measured and calm but his eyes betrayed his concern.

The rider was gone, but Matt's eyes continued to contemplate the empty street. Wishful thinking made him hope that Doc's buggy would round the corner any minute now, but the more rational part of his mind told him that it wasn't about to happen.

Chester cast the Marshal a troubled look of his own. Miss Kitty had gone missing once before. He remembered it all too well. It had happened almost two years ago when, unbeknownst to anyone, she had taken some eastern 'dude' by the name of Rachmil up on his offer to take a little drive out on the prairie. Their buggy had broken down, leaving the two stranded out on the prairie in the middle of the night. It had been quite a fright but in the end, he and Mister Dillon had found her unharmed.

"My goodness, what do you think could've happened, Mister Dillon?" he now wondered.

At a loss, Matt raised his hat brim and scratched his forehead. His mind was racing with the usual possibilities.

"I don't know, Chester...they could've slipped a wheel, maybe broke an axle. Anything's possible."

Another possibility, one that he feared even more, also played in his mind. _What if they had been attacked somewhere along the way?_ But he chose to keep that thought to himself for now.

Beside him, Pence thoughtfully scraped at a sideburn.

"You don't s'pose, they could still be out at the Crandall's?" he wondered, shooting the lawman a sideways glance.

Matt chewed on the inside of his cheek as he considered Bill's words. The early morning sun angling over his shoulder, kept half of his face concealed in shadow.

"Well, I think there's a good chance of that, too," he conceded slowly.

If he was to be honest, he couldn't think of too many reasons why Kitty and Doc would have stayed at the Crandall's, unless maybe someone had fallen ill out there. But there was no way of knowing for sure unless he rode out there.

Apparently, Chester was thinking along those same lines.

"Well, I think we just oughtta ride out there an' see about it," he now suggested.

Matt agreed--albeit not exactly the way Chester had imagined.

"Yeah, I think that's what I'm gonna do." He nudged his assistant's arm. "Go an' saddle my horse for me, will ya?"

"Yes, sir, I'll do--" said Chester and then suddenly stopped short. He regarded the Marshal, his expression questioning. "Wait...wh-what do you mean_--your_ horse? You don't want me go with you?"

Matt shook his head slightly. "No, I think one of us'd better stay here."

Chester, now in full 'mother hen'-mode, shifted uncomfortably.

"But Mister Dillon," he began to object carefully, "don't you think, it'd better if you had me come along? I mean...with you bein' as tired as you are, I kinda feel like I oughtta be goin' with you--"

Matt listened patiently until Chester was finished.

"You through?" he then wondered.

His tense tone was such that brooked no argument. It had a strong finality about it that wasn't lost on Chester. He shrugged--a half-hearted lift of his shoulders, but forbore to press his point any further.

"Well, yeah, I guess so," he replied reluctantly, "if you want me to stay here then I reckon that's what I'll do."

Matt tugged on the brim of his hat, settling it more comfortably on his head.

"Good--then go an' get my horse." His reply was short, a clear testament to his present mood and without waiting for a reply, he turned and began to briskly walk up the boardwalk towards the jail.

The clacking of his boots against the dusty planks echoed loudly in the otherwise quiet street, his long, hurried strides betraying his concern.

For a moment, Chester stared after him. He laced a hand through his dark hair.

"All right, I'll do it," he muttered unhappily, "but I sure ain't gonna like it none--"

The idea of Mister Dillon making the two-hour long ride in his condition by himself, troubled him,but at the same time, he also knew that there was nothing he could do to change his mind.

"Well, I see you later, Pence," he told Bill who was looking just as troubled and then hurried after the Marshal to carry out his bidding.

_x_

A tense silence had settled over the room as Dan Biggs studied the doctor, a contemptuous sneer on his lips.

Kiley now appeared at the outlaw's side and brushed past him to where Stanton's prone form was still sprawled on the floor.

Finally, Biggs broke the silence.

"You know, Adams," he snickered as he pointed to the old army colt in the doctor's hand, "that thing there goes off, someone might get hurt." His own colt remained trained on Doc as he smoothly stepped across the room, coming to a halt directly in front of him.

The sneer was gone now, his face hard, unsmiling as he held out a broad, callused hand, palm-up.

The gesture didn't require any words for Doc to understand its meaning.

Silently, he turned the gun around and, holding it by the barrel, surrendered it.

The outlaw accepted it, a brief grin of supreme satisfaction flashing across his disfigured face and shoved it in his belt. Then, without warning, he struck him. It was a brutal, back-handed blow that sent the older man's head rocking to the side.

"DOC!"

Kitty's hand flew to her mouth and an involuntary cry of distress erupted from her lips as she watched the doctor stagger back a pace. She attempted to come to his aid but was stopped short as Biggs swung his arm around and leveled the gun on her.

"Stay where you are!" he growled.

Kitty froze, her anxious gaze shifting from Biggs to the doctor.

Doc swallowed hard and straightened back up. Bringing the back of his hand to his lip, he carefully touched the fresh blood that had welled in the corner of his mouth.

He spared a brief glance at the crimson smear on the edge of his hand and found that his fingers were shaking.

He took a deep breath, trying to control the quickening surge of anger he felt springing up inside him. Losing his temper now, he realized, wouldn't serve any purpose, most likely only make matters worse.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Kitty's angry gaze had narrowed upon Biggs.

"That was real brave," she spat disgustedly before the doctor had a chance to stop her, "why don't you go and pick on someone your own size?"

Doc raised his hand, his own anger quickly shriveling behind the hand of reason.

"It's all right, Kitty," he reassured her quietly, "I--I'm fine."

Amused by the defiance he heard in Kitty's voice, Biggs chuckled. He moved to speak, but a low groan coming from somewhere further back in the room, suddenly distracted him.

The outlaw moved his attention to Kiley who was squatting on his haunches at Stanton's shoulder. The latter, who was just coming around, was moaning softly, cradling the back of his throbbing head where Kitty's skillet had left an enormous lump.

"How's he doin'?" wondered Biggs.

At the query, Kiley looked up.

"Got a knot the size of Texas on his head," he remarked with a quick, nasty glance at Kitty, "but I reckon, he'll be all right."

Biggs grunted an acknowledgment and then let his gaze wander between Doc and Kitty, speculatively sucking on a tooth.

"Reckon Stanton ain't gonna be too happy with the two of you--" His eyes came to rest on her. "--especially with you, red."

"Why don't you just go to hell?" snapped Kitty in reply, her language taking a decidedly unladylike turn as she glowered at him with frosty defiance. Her fingers were still clenched around the handle of the skillet and suddenly, she felt very tempted to use it on him.

Biggs regarded her with a leering grin, noting with amusement how the skillet in her hand was trembling.

"My, what a temper--" he snickered.

It only infuriated Kitty even more. She straightened her shoulders and raised her chin, a fierce light burning in her blue eyes as she withstood Biggs' gaze.

"Oh, believe me...you haven't seen the worst of it yet," she retorted heatedly.

Alarmed, Doc stepped forward, instinctively placing himself between Kitty and Biggs in hopes of diverting his attention away from her.

"Now just hold on there a minute, Kitty--" he said.

His firm hand upon her arm was enough to silence her--if only for the moment.

He felt responsible for her and if anything was to happen to Kitty, he wasn't sure how he could ever face Matt.

The tightness in Doc's stomach spread to his throat. But despite it, he met the outlaw's gaze levelly.

"Let me tell ya something, mister," he said, sounding considerably braver than he actually felt, "I don't know what you figure on doin' with us, but whatever it is--I don't think it's gonna do you much good--Matt Dillon's not the kind of man who'll allow anyone to blackmail him."

"That's true...he's not gonna fall for it," added Kitty angrily, knowing good and well that he would.

Biggs apparently knew it, too. His lips thinned in a cruel smile.

"He'll come," he offered with calm certainty, "I know he will...and when he does--" He made a swift cut-throat gesture across his throat with the barrel of his colt,"--I'm gonna kill him."

Kitty glowered at him.

"You disgust me," she replied with loathing in every nuance of her tone.

But as much as she hated to admit it, Biggs was right about one thing.

Matt would come.

She was fairly certain that their absence had been discovered by now. She also knew that Matt--if he was already back from Anderson's, wouldn't waste any time to come looking for her and Doc.

Kitty suddenly felt sick.

It must have shown in her face, for Biggs chuckled, his lips curling derisively.

"If you're good, maybe I'll let you watch--"

He turned to his partner, indicating Doc with his gun. "Tie him up, Kiley, an' make sure you do it right."

After dispensing the directive, he holstered up his gun.

"You," he now said to Kitty, jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen, "go an' get some breakfast goin', I'm hungry."

Kitty folded her arms across her chest, every inch of her exuding defiance.

"Go fix your own."

She turned away, only to suddenly feel a big hand clamp down roughly onto her forearm.

Before Kitty knew what was happening, she found herself violently yanked against him. The skillet slipped from her fingers and landed on the floor with a loud clatter.

"Get...your...filthy...hands...off...me!" she snarled fiercely, each word punctuated by a blow of her fists as she drummed them against his huge barrel chest.

Her face was pressed against his shirt and she smelled the stale odor of sweat, day-old booze and tobacco emanating from the stained fabric. It made her stomach churn.

"Let...go...I said!" she ground, her breath coming in angry jerks.

Calling upon every ounce of her strength, she struggled furiously, hitting out at him as hard as she could. But try as she might, Kitty was no match for his brutal strength. Holding her firmly against him, Biggs simply chuckled, amused by her futile efforts to free herself.

The more she fought him, the more he seemed to tighten his cruel hold her. She felt as if the air was being squeezed from her lungs as he crushed her small frame against his. The blood was roaring loudly in her ears, her whole world narrowing down to the one single thought of freeing herself from the outlaw's grasp.

Somewhere behind her, she faintly registered Doc's repeated angry demands for Biggs to leave her alone. A sickening slapping sound followed, like flesh hitting flesh, then there was silence.

It wasn't before long and Kitty ran out of breath. Her chest heaving, an angry sob escaped her lips as she finally ceased to struggle and sagged in his grasp.

Biggs grinned down at her.

"You know, I still say you got spunk, red," he whispered hoarsely as his black eyes roved over her flushed face, lingering on her lips. "I like that." His voice dropped even lower. "S'matter of fact, I like you--"

He left the words hanging meaningfully, his hungry gaze trailing from her lips, down the curve of her throat and lower still.

His unshaven face, bearing the ugly scar, was only inches from hers and the sour smell of his breath assaulted her nostrils. Utterly repulsed, Kitty tried turning her head away, but Biggs grasped her chin firmly between strong fingers, forcing her face back to his.

Kitty tensed, alarmed by the gleam of raw desire she saw lurking in the depths of his dark eyes. She knew what he wanted and, for the first time since their capture, she felt a blatant stab of fear for herself.

"Miz Kitty?"

The inquiring voice coming from the doorway, startled them both and abruptly distracted Biggs from his intentions.

Roused by the commotion, Rory stood on the threshold, his eyes widened in shock as he took in the disturbing scene before him. It shook the last of the sleep from him.

"Let go of her! Leave her be!" he screamed, and the next moment he was flying across the room, throwing himself at the outlaw.

It was like David fighting Goliath.

Bare feet were kicking angrily at Biggs' shins, small fists pummeling the big man wherever they could reach.

"Let go of her! Let go of her!" the little boy yelled furiously as he continued his assault on the outlaw.

Luck was on Rory's side; a not exactly intentional--but nonetheless, effective punch to the outlaw's groin efficiently achieved the desired result.

Scowling, Biggs sputtered a string of bitter vulgarities and shoved Kitty aside. Reaching down, he attempted to pry the screaming boy off of him, only to quickly retract his hand seconds later with a surprised yelp of pain.

Disbelief quickly gave way to white, hot anger when he saw the blood seeping from several deep puncture wounds that Rory's teeth had left in the back of his hand.

"Why, you little--"

He yanked his hat off and slapped the boy hard across the face with it, knocking him clear across the plank floor.

The hat left red welts on Rory's cheek. Stunned, he landed on his backside and touched shaky fingers to his stinging cheek, tears of humiliation and anger burning in his hazel eyes.

"Rory!"

In an instant Kitty was at his side. Crouching down in front of him, she pulled the sobbing boy into her arms. After quickly examining his puffy cheek, she lifted her eyes and glowered at Biggs with fierce outrage.

"What kind of man are you anyway?" she spat, the sudden rush of anger dispelling her earlier fear, "why, he's just a child--"

His breathing harsh and labored, Biggs towered over her. He was sucking on his bleeding hand, his nostrils flaring. His glance was cutting as he wagged a big finger in Rory's direction.

"He tries that again, I'm gonna beat him like a mule!"

For another moment, he glared at the boy and then turned back to Kitty.

"And you," he then said, now threateningly pointing his finger at her, "I just about had it with you. One more word outta you an' I swear, I'm gonna make you regret it!"

The muscles of his face worked furiously as he yanked the dirt-encrusted bandanna from his sweaty neck and began to awkwardly wrap it around his bloody hand, using his teeth to aid him in knotting it.

Wheeling around, he stomped across the room towards the table, the bristling strike of his heels against the floor testament to his ire.

"What, the hell, you starin' at," he growled at the doctor who, helplessly tied to his chair, had been forced to witness the entire scene with horror. The left side of his face was red and swollen, bearing the unmistakable mark of Kiley's brutal hand.

Out of frustration, Biggs kicked one of the chairs aside, sending it skittering halfway across the room. He grabbed another and dropped himself down into it.

He was furious.

Part of him half-wished that they had gone directly into Dodge instead of stopping. If they had, Dillon would be dead by now and he wouldn't be sitting here, forced to content with these people. But another part of him reasoned that it was probably too late for that now. For all he knew, Dillon could already be on his way out here.

No, he decided, it would be better to stick to the original plan of using their hostages as leverage against him.

His eyes began to roam about the room and settled on his two accomplices.

A shuck dangling between his lips, Kiley was struggling to help a still groggy Stanton to his feet.

_That damn woman. Dillon would pay for that, too._

His withering glare automatically leveled on Kitty and the little boy. Still cradled safely in her embrace, he was crying softly, his tears leaving dark, wet spots on the front of her blouse.

Biggs gave a snort of disgust, his charcoal eyes fired with malignant light. He dragged a grubby sleeve beneath his nose.

_Yes, he would make Dillon pay, he would make him pay good for his brother's death, for all his troubles. As a matter of fact, he had a good notion to make them all pay--_

_to be continued..._


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

_x_

An hour and a half later, the Marshal reined the buckskin to a halt and sat for a moment to let the animal blow. He hadn't been pushing him terribly hard, but the horse was shaking and sweating; his hide was wet and white patches of whipped-up foam lay on his neck and chest.

Although it was still quite early, the day was already warming up quickly, promising to be even hotter than the previous one. The sunlight was not of the bright pleasant kind--it was dull and sullen, and it pulled the sweat right out of the skin.

Matt lifted his Stetson and dragged his forearm across his brow mopping up beads of perspiration, leaving a streak of dust standing in its place. Sweat trickled uncomfortably inside his shirt and ran down his back, glueing the coarse, light blue fabric close against his skin. Trail dust not only clung to his clothes but had also settled inside his mouth, sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He retrieved his canteen from the saddle horn. Wrenching the cork free, he took a measured sip, swishing the lukewarm liquid around in his mouth before allowing it to trickle down his throat.

There hadn't been a single sign nor trace of Doc's buggy anywhere. The only tracks he had found had appeared to be at least a day old and had led directly towards Cross Creek. Matt wasn't entirely sure what to make of it and began to wonder whether maybe Pence had been right after all. Maybe Doc and Kitty were still out at the Crandall's. He had a feeling that he would find out soon enough.

With a slap of his hand, he drove the cork back into the canteen and gathered up the reins. Urging the animal forward with his heels, he directed him up the incline that stretched before them.

Moments later, they had topped the rise. Before him lay Cross Creek and, a good two-hundred yards ahead, tucked away amongst the cottonwoods sat what surely had to be the Crandall homestead.

Matt stretched himself tall in the saddle. The leather creaked with the movement as his intent gaze began to scan the terrain below.

At first glance, nothing seemed amiss; it was like any other homestead upon the Kansas prairie: simple and efficient. A plain board and batten house with a small front porch, surrounded by a number of outbuildings, a corral and a barn. Chickens were scratching about in the yard and a thin curl of wood smoke was rising from the stovepipe, indicating that the occupants were up and about.

Matt nudged the buckskin into a slightly different position to observe the farm from a different angle. As he did so, he now noticed the little black buggy sitting beside the barn. It was unhitched.

He recognized it at once as being Doc's. But the fact didn't put his mind at ease--on the contrary. Matt suddenly felt himself grow tense, instinctively sensing something wasn't right down there.

The notion raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

He continued to move his eyes around the yard until they settled on the corral. It was occupied by several horses--four, to be exact he determined after a quick count.

Too many for Matt's taste. According to Doc, Luke Crandall didn't seem like a man who owned more than a team of horses.

Unable to shake the tightening sense of unease, his gaze wandered back to the house. Something told him that he had better be careful and that it wouldn't be wise to ride down the incline in plain view.

He dismounted and led the buckskin a little ways off the trail where he ground-tied him in a small clearing amongst the cottonwoods.

Matt slipped the Winchester from the rifle boot and, using the dense growth of trees as cover, started down the slope.

His arrival hadn't gone unnoticed.

The Marshal was within fifty yards of the house, when the door suddenly swung outwards with a sharp creak.

In a flash, Matt had flattened himself against the trunk of the nearest tree, the rifle clutched readily to his chest.

"DILLON!"

The unexpected, sharp summons sent a cold, rippling sensation through him.

Carefully, Matt eased his head around the tree trunk.

There, standing on the small front porch, was Doc Adams. But it wasn't he who had spoken; behind him, concealed in the shadow of the doorway, Matt could feel the presence of another man. A bright gleam of sunlight reflected off something metallic behind the doctor. It was a revolver, leveled squarely at his friend's back.

"Dillon, I know you're out there!" the other yelled again and Matt could hear the intense agitation in his voice

He cursed himself for not having been more careful. But now it was too late and there was no sense in not responding.

Matt inched his head around the trunk again.

"Who are you, mister?"

There was no immediate reply but he saw that the doctor took a step forward.

"Matt--it's Doc," the physician's voice carried across the yard, "they've got Kitty and the children--"

Matt let a heavy breath falter between his parted lips. He could hear the strain and tension in his friend's voice, and he felt a shiver of cold dread begin to work its way down his spine. A dark expression moved over his face like a coming storm cloud

_Damn it. That was exactly what he had been afraid of._

He collected himself quickly.

"Doc," he called back after taking a deep breath, "are they all right?"

"They're fine, Dillon," the stranger suddenly cut in harshly, "and they're gonna stay that way as long as you do as I say."

"Who are you, mister and what do you want?" Matt tried again, more than anxious to know who he was up against.

It quickly became apparent though that the other had no intentions of revealing his identity just yet.

"You'll find out when you get down here," came his impatient reply, "now throw your guns down an' come out...but do it slow an' don't you try nothin' or the doc here's gonna get it!"

That wasn't really what Matt had hoped to hear.

He exhaled slowly. Sweat was trickling down his back and from his brow, and he knew it wasn't just from the heat. It didn't help any that he hadn't gotten any sleep the night before either. The adrenaline rushing through his veins combined with the fatigue made his head throb dully. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose to clear his mind.

He had to do some quick thinking here and couldn't afford to lose his edge.

"S'pose I do as you say--how about the others?" he now ventured, "how do I know you're not gonna harm them?"

An uncomfortable pause lengthened and grew. Matt didn't like that the other had to think on it.

"All right, I ain't got no squabble with them--they can go if you take their place," the stranger called back at last, "you got my word, Dillon!"

That wasn't much. He had the word of a man he didn't know, much less trusted.

"I don't know if that's good enough," Matt decided to push just a little further. He realized quickly though that the other had arrived at the end of his patience.

"Damn it, Dillon!" came his angry response, "I'm gonna give you five seconds to make up your mind! Either you come out or I'm gonna pump this no-good sawbones here full of lead!"

The distinct and unmistakable click of a hammer being pulled back followed his threateningly spoken words.

"All right, just take it easy...there's no need for that," Matt called back to calm the irate stranger, at the same time hoping to buy himself some time.

He considered his options but quickly realized that he didn't have too many. He swore softly under his breath. There wasn't a thing he could do without risking Kitty's or Doc's life. As a matter of fact, he wouldn't put it past the stranger to harm the children in order to get what he wanted. It seemed that this man, whoever he was, had him whipped every which way there was.

He set the rifle down against the tree trunk and began to undo his gunbelt. Seconds later, it dropped down into the grass with a soft thud.

"All right, I'm comin' out now," he called, "I'm unarmed."

Raising his hands to signal compliance, Matt slowly emerged from behind the tree. The realization, that the other could just simply gun him down the moment he stepped out into the open, sent cold ripples down his spine. But he squared himself and kept his face trained in a carefully schooled mask that didn't reveal his unsettling emotions.

"Start movin', Dillon!"

Matt obliged and started to make his way down the slope. Sweat was prickling uncomfortably on his brow, stinging as it ran into his eyes, but he dared not wipe it away, afraid that the other might mistake his action.

"Keep comin, slow an' easy-like."

Moments later, the Marshal had reached the edge of the yard. His boots crunched softly against the stony ground as he crossed the flat stretch of ground leading to the house.

"That's far enough," the stranger's voice instructed him sharply when he was within a few paces of the front porch.

Chickens clucked loudly and scattered before him as Matt came to a halt at the foot of the stairs. He squinted into the glare of sunlight. The warm haze of the mid-morning sun cast the porch and the physician in a halo of marigold light, but the stranger remained hidden in the concealing shadows of the doorway.

As the Marshal's eyes tracked over the doctor, he couldn't help but notice the slovenly appearance of the older man. His curly salt and pepper hair was disheveled, his black string tie hung undone around an unbuttoned shirt collar, and his face bore the tell tale signs of an altercation. One side was swollen and the corner of his mouth was crusted with dried blood.

The sight caused Matt's jaw to tighten. Inwardly, he boiled but no visible measure of expression crossed his face.

Doc's blue eyes that had seen every aspect of birth and death and every malady that could come to man in between now looked down at him, tired and deeply shadowed by worry.

"Matt...I'm sorry, I--" he began to say but a hard shove from Biggs abruptly silenced him.

"Shut up, old man!"

Doc stumbled forward out onto the porch.

Right away, Matt's angry gaze slid past the doctor to the broad-shouldered figure that now detached from the shadows, and he was finally able to get his first good look at him.

The man was tall, a lot taller than Doc and built rather solidly with a big chest, reminding Matt a little of Emil Wolheter, the German blacksmith back in Dodge. His eyes were beetle-black, staring down at him with a gaze that was both calculating and dispassionate. The huge scar that disfigured his face was impossible to ignore and Matt automatically called to memory some of the circulars he had looked at this morning. But he couldn't remember having seen this man on any of them.

Matt pinned him with a hard gaze, a growing sense of irritation burgeoning in his mind.

"I s'pose you tell me now what this is all about, mister--"

The words, so calmly spoken belied the quiet anger seething within him. He stood tense, waiting, deep inside afraid that he already knew the answer, but having to ask just the same.

Biggs regarded him speculatively, his eyes glittering coldly.

"Seems you an' I have a little score to settle, Dillon," he said, speaking through the stubby remains his cold cheroot. "I was on my way to see you, but me an' my partners ran into your friends here yesterday an' we decided on a little change of plans."

That's what Matt had already figured.

The mere notion of Kitty and the Crandall-children in the hands of this man made his stomach churn. He prayed that he hadn't treated them the way he had treated Doc. He drew a deep breath, trying to keep his mounting anger in check and out of his voice.

"All right, if it's me you're after then let the rest of them go."

"All in good time, Dillon."

"What's wrong with right now?" asked Matt flatly.

The other's face darkened immediately.

"You go on talkin' like that, I'm gonna put a bullet in you right now."

"Matt," Doc raised his bushy brows in warning, "that's Dan Biggs you're talkin' to--"

"I said for you to shut up, Doc!"

Another hard shove from Biggs quickly silenced him again.

Matt nodded calmly but the expression in his eyes was anything but that.

"I see," he said, remembering at once Chester's warning. There was no need to ask what Biggs wanted.

The outlaw grinned.

It was not a very pleasant grin, Matt decided.

"Like I said, you an' I have a little unfinished business, Marshal--"

"Not as far as I'm concerned," countered Matt evenly.

"Well, I don't give a damn what you think," snapped Biggs with a flare of rising aggravation, "you killed my li'l brother! You think I'm just gonna let you get away with that?"

Matt's eyes held Biggs' firmly.

"Your brother was a fool, Biggs."

"Don't you dare talk about him like that!" the outlaw thundered immediately.

"Look, maybe you understand this," replied Matt, his voice calm, his tone low with an edge of hardness, "your brother drew on me first...he didn't give me a choice."

But the other was clearly tired of arguing.

"We're through talkin', Dillon! Another word outta you an' the doc here's gonna get a bullet!"

There was a lethal hostility in Biggs' voice as he shoved the barrel of his colt hard into Doc's back and thumbed back the hammer.

The action signaled an abrupt end to their conversation.

Matt hesitated, his indecision brief before he bit down on his lip, refraining from saying anything else. He had learned all he needed to know anyway and figured that it was safer not to provoke Biggs any further.

The outlaw stepped away from the door and swung his colt on the lawman.

"All right, get up here, Dillon," he growled, "from now on there ain't gonna be no more talkin'."

_x_

"Excuse me, is this the Marshal's office?"

Chester jerked into wakefulness with a startled snort, almost slipping from his chair as he was unceremoniously roused from his mid-morning nap by the inquiring voice.

Stifling a yawn, he straightened from his dozing position and began to rub his sleepy eyes with his knuckles. He blinked several times until his vision cleared.

His gaze now settled on a middle-aged man standing directly in front of him on the small porch of the jail, peering down at him from curious, steel-gray eyes.

He was of average height and build, his features weathered and sun-beaten, his large hands callused. An old cavalry slouch hat sat atop a shock of thick, brown hair that was laced with streaks of gray.

But despite his common appearance, he carried himself in a manner that hinted at him being more than just a simple homesteader.

Chester couldn't remember having seen him in Dodge before, but he seemed like a nice enough fellow; his face was honest and open, his gaze direct.

"I reckon, it is," the jailer replied lazily through another yawn as he began to stretch himself.

Even though it wasn't even noon yet, Front Street had grown quiet as most people had retreated indoors to escape the heat. Several horses stood dozing at the hitching rails and a lone buckboard was sitting in front of the mercantile across the street.

The stranger crossed his arms over his chest.

"I reckon you're the Marshal then?"

Chester grinned, not able to help himself from being a little flattered by the false assumption.

"Oh, I ain't the Marshal," he replied through another yawn as he awkwardly clambered to his feet, stretching some more, "Mister Dillon's the Marshal, but he ain't here...he's--" he paused, suddenly remembering that the lawman had set out to find Miss Kitty and Doc. Right away, his face clouded with worry as the full memory came back to him.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I don't rightly know when he'll be gettin' back," he finished lamely.

At Chester's words, an expression of disappointment began to settle over the other's face.

"Well, that's too bad," he said, shaking his head sadly, "I was hopin', he could help us out. The wife and I just got into town--drove here all the way from Wichita."

Chester scraped his thumbnail along the back of his neck. "Well, what's it that you need help with, mister?" he then wondered, curious, "I work for the Marshal. My name's Chester Goode."

He quickly ran his hand up and down his pant leg to wipe it clean and then held it out in a greeting.

The older man's lips curved into a smile beneath his droopy mustache.

"Crandall--Luke Crandall's the name," he introduced himself.

He took the proffered hand in a firm grip and pumped it, oblivious to the astonished expression that had spread across Chester's face.

_to be continued..._


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

_x_

From inside the house, Kitty had followed the entire conversation between Matt and Biggs, a terrible sick feeling twisting inside her stomach. Never had she felt more torn than at this very moment. Part of her was glad to see him, longed for him to bring an end to this nightmare and take her safely back to Dodge; another, more rational part of her mind told her it wasn't very likely that he was coming back with them--not now after he had willingly placed himself at the mercy of Biggs in hopes to secure hers, Doc's and the children's freedom.

Hugging Carrie tighter to herself against the sudden chill that was stealing over her, she now wished he'd never come.

Footsteps sounded on the porch outside and moments later, Doc shuffled into the house, followed closely by the Marshal. Kitty looked up as his tall, familiar form darkened the doorway. He had to duck slightly as he stepped over the threshold, his hands still raised at his sides. Biggs was right behind him, poking him forward with the tip of his colt barrel.

Matt had taken only a few steps into the room when the outlaw ordered him sharply to stop.

"That's far enough, Dillon," he growled.

Matt obliged. Feeling the gun barrel ease, his eyes quickly skimmed the room to take stock of his surroundings.

Right away, he caught sight of two more men--no doubt, Biggs' partners. One, a tall and lanky-looking fellow was leaning with his back to the fireplace while the other, a shorter, dark-haired man had positioned himself behind Kitty who was sitting at a table, holding Carrie in her lap.

_Kitty_.

Across the room, their gazes locked and they stared steadily at each other for a few long seconds. To anybody else, his face remained unreadable but Kitty could see the carefully disguised concern behind his eyes.

Matt quickly looked her over. Her clothing and hair appeared a little disheveled, but he was thankful to find no obvious signs of injury. Her eyes were telling a different story though. He had known her long enough to be able to read the distress and emotional strain reflected in their deep-blue depths.

The children, although obviously frightened, seemed fine as well. Matt silently vowed to himself that he would do everything in his power to keep it that way.

From behind Kitty, Kiley suddenly gave a low whistle of astonishment.

"Well, I'll be--"

His words stopped short for a second until his mind caught up to his surprise. "He sure's a big one ain't he--"

Stanton murmured his assent and Biggs snorted in contempt.

"The bigger they are, the harder they fall, Kiley," he growled, his lips drawn into a thin, humorless smile, "you'll see soon enough."

Crunching the knuckles of one hand against the other, he shot Matt a meaningful grin.

"I got somethin' real special in mind for our friend the Marshal here."

Matt wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to find out what Biggs had in stock for him. Whatever it was, he had a feeling that it was most likely going to be deadly. He didn't bother asking, other more important matters on his mind at the moment.

His eyes skitted sideways as he motioned with his head in Kitty's and the children's direction.

"How about lettin' them go now?"

"No, Matt," Kitty immediately protested, fighting silent a rippling tremor of panic, "please, don't--"

Her anguished plea stabbed at his heart but he willed himself to ignore it.

"Never mind, Kitty," he brushed her off with a quick glance.

The sharp tone of his voice, a tone she knew had its roots in his concern for her, caused her to fall silent. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and didn't say anymore.

Matt's eyes, flint-hard but otherwise expressionless rested on the outlaw, steadily, unwavering.

"How about it, Biggs?"

Biggs didn't reply.

Unhurried, he pulled a fresh cheroot from his jacket pocket, then casually struck a match against the nearby wall. The flame caught with a loud hiss and the sharp tang of sulfur. Idly he puffed on the rolled tobacco, coaxing a cherry glow from the smoldering tip. The match was carelessly finger-snapped to the floor.

"Nobody can say I ain't a man of my word," he said at last and then added, a strange smile now spreading across his ugly face, "If I said I'll let them go then that's how it's gonna be."

A gray plume of smoke from the cheroot coiled into the air, climbing lazily towards the ceiling.

Matt didn't like it.

There was something about Biggs' last statement that didn't sit too well with him. But before he had a chance to study the other's face closer, Biggs had already turned towards Stanton.

"Go an' hitch the doc's buggy."

Stanton gaped at Biggs, a look of unbelief on his ruddy face. He couldn't understand it. Dan Biggs wasn't known to be that easily swayed, especially not by a lawman; besides, he, himself still had, what he considered unfinished business with this Adams and the redhead. His hand automatically went for the enormous lump that had formed in the back of his head and he flinched.

"You ain't serious, ain't you?" he ventured, sounding uncertain.

Biggs' eyes narrowed. He looked at him hard.

"Get goin'," he growled, jerking his head towards the door.

For another second, Stanton continued to stare at Biggs uncomprehendingly, but the other's face remained unyielding. With a muffled curse he finally wheeled around and stomped out the door.

Biggs slipped his colt from his holster again and then turned to the doctor, flagging him towards the door.

"All right, Adams...move it!"

"Not very likely," stated Doc flatly.

The outlaw stared at him through narrowed eyes, not sure whether he had heard right.

"What'd you say?"

"Let me get somethin' straight here, mister," the doctor now burst angrily as he wagged a finger into Biggs' disfigured face, "I'm not goin' anywhere--unless that is, Matt here goes, too!"

Biggs raised his brows. "That so?"

Doc tilted his chin and glared at him defiantly.

"You bet your life!" His tone was sharp with challenge, almost belligerent and he made no effort to mask it.

Unfazed, Biggs tapped ashes off the cheroot and stuck it back between his lips. His tobacco-scented breath wafted into the doctor's face as he leaned towards him.

"How about we bet on your life?" he intoned softly.

The colt in his right clicked twice as his thumb forced back the hammer to add weight to his words.

But Doc didn't back an inch. He'd taken about all he was going to take without losing his temper.

His lips compressed into a thin line, he dragged a swift hand across his mustache, standing eye to eye with Biggs as if daring him.

"What're gonna do--shoot me? Well, go on...why don't you just do it an' get it over with!"

"Doc--" Matt's voice came low, cautioning, "calm down." He saw something coming and he knew he wasn't going to like it.

Doc's head whipped around and his eyes leveled harshly on the lawman.

"Oh, don't you be calm with me, Mister Marshal!" he snapped, bristling up even more, "you know what he's gonna do? That murderer there's gonna kill ya! You think I'm gonna just stand by and--"

Biggs' facade of calmness crumpled. A purplish vein began to flicker dangerously on his temple as his features darkened.

"I just about had it with you!" he erupted angrily.

"Kiley!" He made a swift sweeping gesture with his gun in Kitty's direction.

A small whimper escaped Kitty's throat as the cold muzzle of Kiley's gun was suddenly pressed hard against her temple. The little girl in her arms, already frightened, began to cry and Rory's eyes widened in silent horror at the sight.

Matt felt the bile rising in his throat and it took every ounce of control he had not to panic. He stood stiffly, eyes schooled to practiced calm. Inwardly, he shuddered, his heart rate accelerating. Sweat broke out on his back and he realized with a detached kind of shock, he was afraid.

His eyes were drawn to Kitty. He could tell the effort it afforded her to remain calm as she softly continued to comfort Carrie while trying her best to ignore the deadly weapon pressed to her head. Matt felt his raised hands clench into fists and willed them to relax.

A tense second passed and then Biggs spoke again.

"You still got somethin' to say, doc?" he challenged softly.

More silence followed.

Matt shot a glance back and forth between the two men. He wanted to warn the doctor to ease off, but he fought down the urge to do so, afraid it would provoke Biggs only further.

Doc stared at Kitty and opened his mouth as if to speak, then, just as quickly, closed it again. He jammed his hands deeper into the pockets of his baggy trousers, balling them into fists and dropped his gaze to the floor.

"No,...no, I got nothin' more to say," he ground out quietly.

Biggs' grin returned, the knowing light of supreme satisfaction sparking in his eyes.

"Good...that's what I thought." He nodded once at Kiley and to Matt's relief, the gun moved away from Kitty's head.

The crunch of boots on the stony ground outside was followed by the clomping of footsteps on the porch and moments later, Stanton's lanky form darkened the doorway.

"All ready," he announced, albeit not very enthusiastically as he pointed over his shoulder to the buggy that was sitting in front of the house.

Biggs flagged Kitty with his gun.

"Ladies first, red," he said, a contemptuous grin curling sun-chapped lips, "say good-bye to your Marshal-friend."

"How kind," replied Kitty bitterly as she climbed to her feet. The little girl in her arms had stopped crying and was clutching on to Kitty's shoulder, her big, green eyes now looking fearfully about.

Kitty walked past Doc and stopped when she was level with Matt.

Their eyes met.

She knew him well enough to tell that he wasn't quite as confident as he was trying to appear. Fear began to curl about her heart. She had always known that she might lose him one of these days. Every time he had set out in pursuit of another lawbreaker, she had braced herself, knowing that this might be the time, he didn't come back. So far, he had always returned. Could it really be different this time?

Matt saw the turmoil in her eyes. He knew exactly what she was thinking, but he didn't know what comfort to give. He tried to smile and made a good attempt at it, at the same time wondering whether it looked as phony as it felt. He had never been very good at fooling her.

"Marsal," Carrie now declared happily, her little arms stretched out towards him.

Matt's lips turned with a flicker of a smile even as he felt his chest tighten.

"You be a good girl now," he said, gently stroking a callused hand over her soft, curly tresses. Then he turned to the little boy who was standing beside Kitty in intimidated silence. Matt saw the puffy, red welts on the side of his face and his jaw tightened. There was no need to ask who had done this to him, and he definitely had a good notion by now to beat Dan Biggs within an inch of his rotten life.

He brought his hand up to his shirt and his fingers fumbled with the clasp of his badge. For a second, he regarded the shiny piece of metal, thinking what it represented, what it meant to him. Then he held the boy's shoulders and crouched to look him in the eye.

"Why don't you hold on to that for me, son," he said gently as he pinned the badge to the little boy's chest.

Rory's hazel eyes went wide and his morose expression lightened a little. Despite the tears that glittered in his eyes, he managed to give the Marshal a smile that showed the huge gaps in his teeth.

"Yes, sir...don't you worry, Marshal," he assured him proudly, "I promise, I'll take good care of it for ya."

Out of the corner of his eye, Matt caught Kitty's gaze on him.

No woman had ever looked at him the way she did. Although her eyes were swimming with fear, the love in them was bright and clear, and he knew it would last him for the rest of his life--however long that was going to be.

"You might as well keep it, kid," snickered Kiley suddenly, "'cause he ain't gonna need it no more."

He raised his gun, cocked it and beaded it on the Marshal, one eye shut.

"Pow! Pow! Pow!" he intoned with a savage grin. Chuckling low and ugly, he then trained the gun on the little boy whose eyes widened with fright.

"Pow!"

At the sound, Rory squeezed his eyes shut. He stood frozen, his knees weak and trembling in his worn pants.

The outlaw gave a short, sharp bark of savage laughter and his partners joined in.

Matt glared up at Kiley, by now more than ready to take him apart as well. Luckily, his common sense prevailed.

"Leave him be," he gritted, his voice hoarse with barely controlled anger.

Kiley just snickered in response but didn't say any more.

Matt smoothed his hand through the boy's curly hair.

"It's all right, don't be afraid."

Rory sniffled. Reluctantly, he nodded.

"Marshal?" his voice was hesitant, reed-thin. "They're--they're gonna hurt you, ain't they?"

Matt pressed his lips together, oddly touched by the boy's concern.

"Not if I can help it," he answered quietly, his words a sincere pledge to himself.

Rory managed a ghost of a smile, brushing his runny nose against his sleeve as he snuffled back a few remaining tears.

Matt drew back and straightened, turning to Kitty once more.

"Take good care of them," he told her, nodding at the children.

She looked so lost that he wanted to gather her into his arms and comfort her, assure her that it was going to be all right and it afforded him a tremendous effort to resist the urge to do so.

Kitty felt her throat convulse and swallowed hard, forcing back the misty tears that threatened at the corners of her eyes. She managed a wan smile but her eyes betrayed her misery.

"Aw...now ain't that sweet--" Biggs suddenly broke in, one corner of his mouth twisted in a sneer to reveal tobacco-yellowed teeth.

Then his face turned ugly.

"Enough of this...get movin'!" he growled impatiently, waving Kitty away from Matt.

Taking his cue from Biggs, Kiley prodded her with his gun.

"C'mon, move it!" he grumbled.

Slowly, and with obvious reluctance, she began to walk, glancing at him over her shoulder one more time.

It would have been all too easy for her to come apart but she bit her lip to stifle further tears, refusing to give Biggs the satisfaction to see her cry.

_x_

It didn't take long, and Kitty and the children were seated aboard the buggy. The physician stepped around to the driver's side and climbed up. He righted himself on the seat and collected the reins.

His expression was quiet and grim as his gaze settled on the four men standing at the foot of the porch. Matt, towering over the others, was standing a few steps in front of Biggs who was hovering at his back, gun drawn while Kiley remained a little off to his left, the rifle in his hands raised and ready.

Kitty was sitting numbly beside the doctor, staring at Matt from pain-filled, deeply shadowed blue eyes.

She couldn't take her eyes off him and suddenly, she remembered her own thoughts from the other night at the Long Branch.

_Why couldn't everything he did be as simple as locating a lost relative? Ya, right,_ she thought bitterly to herself, realizing how wrong she had been.

Biggs removed the cheroot and spat on the ground.

"Get them outta here," he said to Stanton who was holding Doc's horse by its bridle.

At the other's command, Stanton let go of the horse's head and raised his hand, sending it smacking down onto the animal's rump with a loud whoop.

Startled, the bay jumped and broke into a canter, jostling the buggy's occupants in their seats as the vehicle lurched forward.

Under the men's cajoling and jeering, the buggy barreled from the yard, stirring alive a huge dust devil in its wake. It continued on at a sharp pace for a good two hundred yards until it finally slowed down as Doc regained control of the spooked horse.

Matt watched, hands loosely at his sides, relief surging through him with every pace that the buggy put between itself and the house. The stroke of mid-morning sunlight was warm on his neck, a touch barely felt through the shell of his troubled thoughts.

With Kitty, Doc and the children safe he could fully concentrate on finding a way out for himself. He wasn't quite sure how to go about it yet but he had no intentions to let Biggs shoot him up--well, not without a fight anyway.

"See, Dillon," said Biggs suddenly, prodding him with his colt, "I'm a man of my word."

Matt didn't say anything to that; he knew that he wasn't expect to, but again, there was something strange, almost deceptive in the other's statement that he didn't like. He watched as Stanton came strolling over, but he didn't see the quick, meaningful looks the two men exchanged.

The silence stretched out between them as the minutes continued to slowly tick by.

The outlaws' gazes remained pinned to the buggy as it continued to make its slow, cumbersome path up the dirt road.

It almost seemed as if they were waiting for something to happen.

Stanton was comfortably leaning against the hitch rail and toying with colt, idly rolling the cylinder across his forearm to check its spin. Then he holstered up the gun and straightened away from the beam.

He glanced over at Biggs and the two men locked eyes.

"Witnesses ain't good, Stanton," said Biggs slowly, meaningfully.

"Yeah,...'specially not when it comes to killin' a lawman--" agreed the other readily.

The men turned their attention to the buggy again, watching as it now topped the rise.

One moment, its outline was darkly silhouetted against the bright blue sky, the next moment it had disappeared from view as it went down on the other side.

Biggs nodded slowly once.

"Kill' em."

_to be continued..._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

_x_

_Kill them._

The words struck a cold blow to Matt's stomach and it didn't take much imagination to understand their meaning.

There was no time to think, to plan anything. He acted on pure impulse.

In a split second, Matt had ducked away, at the same time twisting himself a half turn. His right knocked Biggs' gun hand aside while his left shot out, catching the other squarely in the face. Teeth grazed against his knuckles and he felt the sudden hot flow of blood spread across his hand.

The outlaw's head snapped back, bopping on his thick neck like the float on a fishing line. Off balance, he staggered backwards into the porch steps, startling the tabby cat who had been napping there. With a frightened meow she leapt from the stairs and bounded off across the yard towards the barn.

Wasting no time, Matt immediately spun around on Stanton, determined at all costs to stop him. The outlaw had his colt halfway drawn when the Marshal plowed into his lanky frame, sending them both tumbling to the ground in a plume of dust.

Matt quickly scrambled to his feet again.

Snagging Stanton by the front of his filthy shirt, he followed up with a swiftly executed punch to his temple and the outlaw crumpled in his grasp.

Matt's eyes darted to the colt that now lay a few feet away in the dust. Without hesitating, he lunged for it. He felt stones and dirt move aside beneath his questing hand, felt his fingertips brush against the sun-warmed metal of the gun.

Almost.

His fingers were about to close around the barrel when a sudden kick from Biggs' boot sent the gun scooting out of his reach.

"Nice try, Dillon," spat the outlaw, flecks of blood dribbling from a broken nose. He hauled out with a booted foot, and before Matt had a chance to climb back to his feet, he found himself under a barrage of vicious kicks.

Gravel and dust scattered around him as he quickly rolled away, skillfully eluding the first two or three kicks, but he was a fraction too slow for the next one; the hard-tipped toe of Biggs' boot suddenly ground painfully into his ribs.

It stung like a whip, like a razor slashing him and Matt couldn't contain a groan as he twisted to one side, trying to escape the punishment. He barely managed to roll clear of another kick, this time, the boot missing his head by a hair. With a quick swipe of his leg, he hooked Biggs below the ankles, kicking his sturdy legs out from under him.

The outlaw grunted in surprise as his back struck the ground hard, giving Matt just enough time to scramble back to his feet.

There were three of them and one of him.

Not bad odds, Matt found himself fleetingly thinking--that was, of course, if the men would have been unarmed.

"Don't kill him...I want him alive!"

Biggs' shrill warning caused Matt to jerk his head up in alarm.

He saw Stanton, stretched out in the dust belly-down. The colt was now in his hand, leveled squarely at the lawman's chest.

For the fraction of a second, Matt froze. It was just enough of a distraction to give Kiley time to come up on him from behind. A strong hand suddenly dug into his shoulder roughly spinning him around and the unexpected blow clipped Matt on the side of the face, driving him back several paces.

Ducking Kiley's next punch, Matt quickly reciprocated with one of his own. The shorter man's head rocked to one side and Matt followed the strike with an uppercut to the man's mid section.

With a startled grunt, Kiley folded in half as he felt the breath being driven from his lungs. Before he had a chance to recover, a powerful two-handed blow to the back of his neck sent him crashing to the ground.

"Hey, Dillon!"

Panting, Matt swung around. He caught a brief glimpse of Biggs' bloody face and then a fist came flying at his head.

Instinctively, he jerked up his left arm, effectively blocking the punch and retaliated with a straight right to the other's chin.

With a gasp, Biggs stumbled backwards and almost tripped over Kiley who was still on his hands and knees in the dust, trying to shake his head clear.

Stanton, back on his feet by now, wasn't one to stand by idly and the next thing Matt knew, he found himself with a muscular arm locked tight around his throat from behind. Without thinking, he rammed his elbow into his attacker's stomach in an attempt to shake him off.

The other gasped and froze instantly but didn't loosen his grip; instead, he continued to mercilessly increase his pressure on Matt's windpipe.

The Marshal was a tall man, a lot taller than the outlaw and the fact that Stanton was hanging on to his back with his whole weight, only added to the pressure the arm was exerting on his throat.

Matt tried dragging air into his lungs but found that he couldn't.

Sudden panic dredged deeply in some hidden resource. With all the strength he could muster, he dug his fingers into Stanton's arm and succeeded at loosening his grasp a little.

He sucked in a greedy breath, the sudden rush of oxygen to his brain almost making him dizzy.

And then Biggs came at him again.

His eyes ablaze with cold fury, the burly man balled his huge hands into fists. For a second, he stared into the Marshal's eyes, breathing hard then he surged forward.

With a grunt, he buried a hard driven fist in the depths of Matt's belly and followed it up with a sharp upper cut to the jaw that jarred the lawman's head back and crashed his teeth together.

Matt felt the breath waffle up from his lungs. Pain blasted its way through his body and then his face.

He reeled and would have fallen but for Stanton's arm around his throat that kept him more or less upright.

Held firmly from behind Matt was unable to fight back.

His hands were wrapped around Stanton's arm to keep it from crushing his windpipe and he couldn't do anything other than try to roll with the punches as they came. Though he tried his best to move aside, several more times the fist smashed into his face. His lip split against his teeth. A cut opened along his cheekbone. His nose bled onto the rough light blue fabric of his shirtfront.

When Biggs hauled out again, not quite as fast this time, Matt managed to bring his left foot up and release it sharply forward.

The boot caught Biggs a long way below the belt. His jaw dropped as he doubled up with a sharp yelp of pain, the air being sucked from his lungs. Moaning, he sank to his knees.

Though some small part of his brain registered satisfaction, Matt had no time to dwell on his small victory; his fingers were still desperately clawing at the arm that continued to relentlessly cut off his air supply. The exertion of trying to shake Stanton off, only added to the rapid depletion of what little breath he had left.

The blood was roaring loudly in his ears like the crash of an angry surf, black spots overtaking his vision. He knew that he wouldn't last too much longer if he couldn't get Stanton off of him soon.

Then it was all over.

The sound of a Winchester being cycled registered faintly in Matt's mind. The arm around his throat loosened a little and he looked up only to find himself staring down into the business end of Kiley's rifle.

"Outta the way, Stanton, I'm gonna fix that bastard for good!" growled Kiley, spittle flying from his lips.

He rammed the barrel against Matt's chest, his eyes blazing with murderous fury.

"Hold it, Kiley...I said he's mine!"

His voice sounding a little higher than usual, Biggs unevenly clambered back to his feet and came to stand, facing his partner. He was breathing heavily, in obvious discomfort from the kick to his groin. His gun was leveled on the Marshal but his blood-shot eyes were boring into his partner's, dangerous and hard.

Kiley held his ground, his face resentful, unyielding as he withstood Biggs' gaze. For a long moment, the two men bristled at one another.

Matt could sense their hackles rising as he stood, sandwiched between the two with Stanton still hanging on to him from behind. It was a stand-off, neither one of them was prepared to give way to the other. They reminded Matt of two angry dogs facing one another down over a bowl of scraps.

It was Kiley who finally backed away.

Angrily, he glared past Matt at Biggs.

"Sure," he spat, clearly not meaning it, "he's yours--"

He shot Matt a hostile glance before reluctantly easing his stance and lowering the muzzle of his rifle.

Ignoring the glare and the remark, Biggs swung on Stanton who still had the Marshal in his strangle-hold.

"Damn it, git the hell off," he hissed, stamping a foot in the dusty ground, "you're squeezin' the life outta him!"

Stanton scowled, not too happy with the order but didn't put up a fuss. He abruptly withdrew his arm and then took a step back, scooping up his colt from the dust as he did.

Right away, Matt slumped forward.

Bracing his hands on his thighs, he greedily gulped in a few lungfuls of air. His chest was heaving with the exertion of the fight and his sweat-beaded hair hung ragged and disshelved over his brow. He knew that Biggs hadn't called his men off out of pure kindness but right now he was glad for it all the same.

Somewhere off in the distance, the cawing of a crow sounded but all that could be heard in the yard was the sound of breathing: his own, harsh and rasping as his body struggled for some measure of recovery, slowing, steadying as it was achieved. Then there was the heavy breathing of the outlaws, all three--Matt couldn't help but notice with a certain degree of satisfaction--clearly looking the worse for wear.

Biggs was taking long, deep breaths, trying to ease the throbbing pain in his groin and Matt used the few precious seconds of respite to quickly take stock of his own physical condition.

He could feel warm blood tracking in sticky slivers across his upper lip and down his jaw, could taste its coppery tang in his mouth, feel more seeping from his lacerated knuckles. His ribs hurt where he had been kicked and the side of his face was throbbing from Biggs' blows, but nothing was broken--he was fairly certain of that.

Biggs ran a grubby sleeve across his face, spreading the blood from his nose all over his face and then spat on the ground.

"So," he said, staring down at Matt from cold, cruel eyes, "you like playin' games, Dillon, eh?"

Feeling a little better, Matt carefully straightened back up to his full height, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. The last thing he wanted to do was give Kiley an excuse to misinterpret his actions and shoot him after all. Still panting a little, he met Biggs' gaze levelly but maintained his silence.

"Well," the outlaw continued, undeterred by Matt's lack of response, "I'm glad you do, 'cause I got a mind to play one with you right now--"

His mouth twisted into a thin, cruel smile as he exchanged quick glances with his partners.

Kiley readily chuckled his assent, excited about the idea of getting even with the lawman for the beating he had taken. But Stanton didn't respond, his mind occupied with entirely different matters.

"How about the others?" he wondered, sounding rather agitated, "you're lettin' 'em git away just like that? Remember? They owe me!"

Biggs made a curt, angry gesture that cut the other's tirade short.

"Aw, the hell with 'em!" he spat, "by the time they get to Dodge, Dillon'll be dead an' we'll be long gone--"

He leveled his beetle-black eyes on the Marshal again.

"You sure gave us a hell of a fight," he said, begrudging the lawman a small amount of respect, "but now it's time to get even."

Matt stood quietly, allowing no measure of expression to cross his face. But the cold sweat that had gathered on his brow, betrayed his tension.

"Well, shoot him then an let's git the hell outta here," grumbled Stanton resentfully, not too pleased at the decision. He felt deprived of his chance to get even with that doctor and the redhead, and he didn't make any effort to hide his disappointment. He shifted restlessly, gravel splattering beneath his boots as he kicked at the ground.

Kiley agreed.

He glanced at Matt, his eyes glittering with hate. He would have loved nothing more that put a couple of bullets into the lawman himself.

"Yeah, just git it over with, Dan."

Biggs stared at Matt for some seconds and then looked from Kiley to Stanton, his gaze filled with speculation.

"I was more thinkin' of lettin' him go," he said, sounding quite serious.

Right away, tension crackled between them, charging the air.

Stanton looked confused.

"What?" he sputtered.

So did Kiley.

"You lost your damn mind?" he said.

Biggs ignored the queries, obviously enjoying their confusion.

But Matt was anything but relieved by his words.

He regarded Biggs intently, trying to understand what the other had in mind. There was no way that he believed for one moment that he would actually let him go.

Biggs lifted his lip in a sneer of contempt, showing his yellow teeth.

"They're right, you know," he addressed Matt again, "I could just shoot you right here, but that would be a little too quick an' easy, don't you think? I mean, where's the fun in that?"

Matt didn't say anything to that, he knew he wasn't expected to, but he couldn't help but wonder with a growing sense of unease what the other had in mind.

Undeterred, Biggs went on, a wolfish grin now spreading across his broad face.

"No," he said, "I got somethin' real special in mind for you. We're gonna play a little game--"

He sniffed back blood that was still trickling from his broken nose and scowled slightly.

"Don't worry--it's real simple," he then added mockingly upon seeing the unspoken query in the Marshal's face, "all you gotta do is run an' leave the rest to me."

Matt clenched his jaw, realizing at once what Biggs meant by 'the rest'.

He maintained his silence, but inside, he struggled to quell the unruly thumping of his heart. He watched as the outlaw reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an old, battered pocket watch.

Biggs snapped open the dented cover and glanced down at its face.

Even Kiley and Stanton were now watching with rapt attention, their earlier resentment forgotten.

"You got exactly one minute, Dillon," announced Biggs now.

The words fell between them as hard and as cold as stone.

_One minute. How could he be sure that Biggs wouldn't shoot him in the back the moment he turned?_ Trying to stall for time, Matt did some quick thinking.

"S'pose I won't play along," he ventured, disregarding a faint feeling that he might be pushing his luck, a feeling apparently shared by Biggs' partners who snickered in response.

In an instant, something deadly entered Biggs' eyes. A mocking ripple of laughter spilled across his lips and then his voice lowered dangerously.

"Looks like you need some convincin'--"

Emotionlessly, he moved the colt away from Matt's chest, adjusting his aim and with the casualness of a practice shot, he calmly squeezed the trigger.

A belch of fire exploded from the muzzle as the bullet spewed forth with a roar.

The slug caught Matt high in the left shoulder.

With a choked groan, he staggered backwards several paces, the impact nearly knocking him off his feet. His face contorted, his lips peeled back from his teeth against the searing explosion of pain that ripped through his shoulder, he reflexively pressed his right hand to the injury.

He spared a quick glance at the blood that was spilling freely from between his fingers and then leveled his angry gaze upon Biggs. His ears were still ringing from the close proximity of the gun's report, but he could hear Biggs' next words clearly.

"Fifty seconds," the outlaw announced dispassionately as he looked up from his watch.

_to be continued..._


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

_x_

Neither one of them had spoken a single word since their forced departure from the Crandall-homestead. Even the two children had joined in and maintained the troubled silence that had settled over them. The jingling of the harness and the incessant rattle of the buggy's wheels as the vehicle bounced over the uneven surface of the rutted dirt road were the only sounds that interrupted the quiet.

Kitty wasn't entirely sure how much time had passed. With Matt's fate dominating her weary thoughts, it seemed that she had lost track of all time.

Over the last four years, she had learned to live with the uncertainties that came with his job, the times when she didn't know where he was or when he'd be back, the nightmares that sometimes haunted him afterwards. But none of it compared to the way she felt now after having to leave him behind in the hands of those men, not knowing whether she would see him again alive.

Her heart squeezed within her_. How did everything go so wrong_? Only yesterday morning had they been sitting at Delmonico's, enjoying each other's company--today, it seemed like a lifetime ago.

It was well past noon by now, with the sun sitting directly above their heads and the heat pouring down hotly onto their shoulders. The temperature had soared since the early hours of the morning and the heat was boiling back off the dusty ground with a vengeance.

But despite it all, Kitty was shivering. There was a strange tightness in her stomach, a gnawing sense of fear that made her contemplate a life without Matt.

The roar of a gunshot suddenly pierced the hot and humid summer air, putting an abrupt end to her bleak thoughts. The report rolled slowly across the open prairie, fading at last to a distant rumble on the far horizon.

Frightened by the sudden noise, the horse bolted forward, jerking the reins from the doctor's hands.

Carrie began to cry in fear as she was jostled roughly in Kitty's lap. Right away, Kitty's arms came around her, securing the child safely against her body.

"Whoa...whoa there!" called Doc out in an attempt to calm the frightened animal.

Half-toppling from the seat, he lurched forward and grappled for the leathers as the horse continued in a headlong dash for freedom from the lumbering vehicle he was pulling behind him. He almost had them, could touch them with his fingertips.

Just then, the buggy hit a particularly nasty rut; the reins slid down over the front and disappeared from sight.

Her arms tightly around the frightened children, Kitty watched anxiously as the doctor, in a rather daring maneuver, leaned dangerously far over the front of the buggy and managed to get hold of the leathers seconds before they slipped to the ground.

Rocks and dirt sprayed from the pounding hooves as the horse continued to recklessly speed on, spittle foaming at its mouth as it fought against the bit. Sweat darkened his hide and frothed into white foam where it rubbed against the harness.

Doc tugged sharply on the reins, all the while calling out soothingly to the spooked animal.

The sound of the doctor's familiar voice, combined with the firm pull on the leathers, eventually coaxed the horse into submission and a moment later, the buggy came to a shuddering halt. The animal's sides were heaving and his nostrils flaring but he obeyed the pressure of the reins and stood still.

Several more shots now followed in close succession, rolling explosions that shattered the quiet.

The bay backed a step and threw his head, snorting but this time, Doc maintained firm control of the horse.

He straightened in the seat and listened, aware of the distinct difference in the sound of the shots. Where the first couple had been short and heavy, the rolling bark of a handgun, a colt perhaps, the others had been lighter with a tell-tale echo that betrayed their origin as coming from a rifle. There were several possible explanations, none of them exactly comforting.

"Doc?" Kitty now queried from beside him.

He could feel the weight of her gaze pressing down upon him and he knew that she was expecting some kind of response.

He slowly turned and meet her gaze.

Her pretty blue eyes were filled with unspoken fear and he realized at once that they were sharing the same frightening thought.

_Matt._

The doctor blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching as if searching for something to say. But the right words wouldn't come and the silence that ensued, weighed heavily between them for a moment.

He lowered his gaze, helplessly staring at the reins in his hand. His face was set into ridged lines of self-recrimination and he suddenly couldn't help feel like a coward, ashamed at being safe while Matt was at the mercy of Dan Biggs and his cronies. Part of his mind reasoned that he hadn't had much of a choice, knew that Matt wouldn't have wanted it any other way, but it did little to ease how he felt.

_More than once had Matt saved his life. _

He remembered the time when Jed Butler had kidnapped him in order to tend to the outlaw's injured partner. Without thinking twice, Matt had risked his own life by putting himself willingly into Butler's hands. Then there was the time when Ben Pitcher had stabbed him and Matt had kept him from bleeding to death by sewing up the knife wound.

_And how many times had the Marshal saved the lives of others without regard for his own?_

_No, there was simply now way he could just drive away and leave his friend._

His thoughts settled into a single, clear focus. He had to do something. He wasn't exactly sure what--he had no gun, no weapon of any kind--all he knew was that he had to get back down there.

His features firmed with grim resolve. The laugh lines that usually crinkled at the corners of his eyes and mouth were barely visible now, making the fine lines of disappointment and disillusion that life had etched into his face, grow more pronounced.

"Kitty, I want you to listen to me."

There was a faint flicker of uncertainty in his eyes but his voice was firm and uncompromising as he spoke. "I know, you're not gonna like this, but I want you to high-tail it back into Dodge just as fast as you can and get Chester. Have him round up a couple of men to bring with him."

Kitty stared down at the reins that he had pressed into her hands and then lifted her gaze to his as the implication in his words struck her.

"What about you?"

Doc sniffed and rubbed his mustache. He hesitated, knowing that she wouldn't like what he was about to say.

"I'm goin' back down there."

His eyes were glittering determined and Kitty knew at once that he meant it. It brought a look of distress to her face.

"Doc...you can't do that," she at once protested, "you don't even have a gun. What if they--"

"By golly, Kitty," the doctor cut her off, "I can't just stand by and let those thugs--"

His voice suddenly faltered and he swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep a tight rein on his emotions. The shots still rang in his mind.

_What if it already was too late? _

He felt a cold slither of dread work its way down his spine to settle in the pit of his stomach.

_No, it_ _can't be_, he firmly told himself not prepared to admit to the sinister possibility.

Their gazes met again and the doctor's expression softened a little at the anguish he saw reflected in the depths of her eyes. He gently cupped her hand that was impassively holding the reins with both of his, squeezing it reassuringly.

"You go on and do as I say...don't you worry about me. I ain't gonna let anybody take shots at me."

Kitty felt his fingers close tightly around her own and she squeezed them back, finding her own small measure of comfort in the gesture. She knew that there was nothing that she could do or say that would change his mind.

Silently, she nodded her head in reluctant acceptance.

Doc squeezed her hands one more time.

"That-a girl, Kitty," he said and began to climb off the buggy.

"Doc."

He paused and looked up at her, one foot on the ground, the other still on the floorboard. There was nothing but undisguised fear in her eyes now.

"Promise me you'll be careful--"

He gave a curt nod.

"I will."

Shuffling around the horse, he stopped on the other side where Rory was sitting, his arm protectively around his little sister. The badge, pinned to the rough, homespun fabric of his patched shirt, gleamed brightly with reflected sunlight. Doc stared at it for some seconds, once more painfully reminded of its owner's unselfish willingness to put the lives of others before his own.

His mustache twitched.

"You keep an eye on those two for me, son," he said pointing at Kitty and Carrie.

Rory swallowed. Though he looked pale and shaken, he acknowledged the doctor with a solemn, "yes, sir."

Doc pursed his lips, allowing the ghost of a smile to surface.

"Good boy," he said, patting Rory's leg.

Then he turned to Kitty once more and for a moment, his eyes lingered on her anxious face.

"Go,...go on now, Kitty," he urged her softly.

Kitty gnawed on her bottom lip in indecision, the leathers heavy in her hand. She stared at him uncertain, suddenly not so sure anymore whether she wanted to leave him, too. His pale blue eyes were set with determination, but she could also see the fear reflected in them.

Sensing her hesitation, Rory gently touched her arm.

"Miz Kitty, we better do as Doc Adams says an' hurry," he pleaded anxiously, instinctively sensing that time was of the essence right now.

The boy's words accomplished what Doc's couldn't. She squared herself and her face, though still pale, firmed with resolve. With a sharp cluck at the horse, she snapped the reins and the buggy lurched forward into motion as the bay broke into a jog, leaving Doc behind to watch its departure with mixed emotions.

_x_

He was running.

Matt had managed to make it halfway across the yard when Biggs' shout suddenly rose from behind him.

"Time's up, Dillon!"

Then the shooting started.

The ground exploded in a shower of sand and small rocks as a bullet struck the dirt a few feet to his left. Undeterred, Matt swerved to the right and continued to zigzag his way across the flat stretch of ground towards the safety of the cottonwood trees ahead.

"Better run, Marshal!"

Biggs' wild and crazy laugh was followed by several more hastily squeezed off shots into his direction. It seemed that the outlaw was just toying with him, none of the bullets coming very close to their mark, but Matt wouldn't have bet his life on it at the moment.

Another bullet seared past him with a whine; it was followed by the ominous click of a firing pin hitting on an empty chamber.

Matt heard a swiftly spoken string of curses erupting from the outlaw's lips when he realized that his gun was empty. Taking full advantage of the few precious extra seconds he had just been given, his boots pounded the dust even faster. Behind him, he heard Biggs work the action of a Winchester, jacking a round into the chamber. The sound only spurred Matt on.

Clutching his limp arm close to his side, he continued to run low to the ground across the open expanse of the yard.

Sweat trickled from his hair, slanting thin trails across his cheek and jaw. He could feel a similar wetness on his back, but had no idea whether it was blood or sweat.

With no time to stop, his desperate gaze scanned his surroundings. For a moment, his vision swam in a sickly haze--blue sky and green trees coalescing into a riotous swirl of color. Desperately, he shook his head clear, fighting against the disorientation. If he was to survive, he was going to need his wits about him. He felt the warm, slick blood oozing out between his fingers, tracking wetly down his hand and dribbling to the ground where it was leaving a grisly trail in the dust.

The bulky silhouette of the cottonwood grove with its thick undergrowth rose around him, promising protection.

A bullet burned its path through the air and he felt its distinctive whisper as it brushed past his head, followed closely by the whine and crack of the rifle report. Apparently, Biggs' aim wasn't any more accurate with a rifle, a distracted part of Matt's mind realized. Either that, or the other actually wanted him to reach the grove. Given the fact that Biggs intended for Matt to suffer as much as possible, he guessed the latter.

The tangle of trees loomed large ahead. Only a few more yards.

His breath was rasping in his lungs, his heart hammering loudly in his chest as he struggled towards the thicket. His boot tip suddenly slammed into a rock, almost tripping him, but he managed to catch himself.

Another shot rang out. It singed past his hip with a whine, splintering the bark off a tree to his right. Matt dropped to the ground, his injured shoulder yielding beneath him as he rolled into the dense growth of underbrush that bordered the yard.

He cried aloud at the impact, unprepared as a staggering explosion of pain knifed through his chest and back, knocking the breath upward through his lungs. For a moment, granulated light danced before his eyes as the world reeled at a sickening angle, spiraling out of control around him.

A ricochet bounced from another tree, then the bullets stopped suddenly, as though choked short.

Behind him, he could hear shouts and didn't bother looking to see if the men followed; he knew that they would.

His senses still reeling from the intense pain, Matt fought his way back to his feet and continued to stagger on, blindly plowing deeper and deeper into the shadows of the grove.

Only when he thought that he couldn't take another step, did he finally stop.

Panting, he stumbled towards a huge cottonwood and sagged against the gnarled expanse of its trunk. His chest was heaving from his recent exertions, his breath coming in short, choppy gasps.

Sunlight filtered mutely through the canopy of green above and he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to calm his rampant breathing.

As his breathing settled, the pain suddenly registered, fully and completely. His left arm hung useless at his side, refusing to move, but fire bracketed the bones all the way to his fingertips. Grimacing, he opened his eyes and glanced down at his shoulder. The amount of blood that was seeping through his fingers, staining the front and left sleeve of his light-blue shirt a dark, shiny garnet hue was alarming and brought a worried frown to his face.

_Definitely not good_, he thought sourly to himself. He'd have to try and stop the flow quickly if he wanted to stay clear-headed. Using his right, Matt carefully turned his left arm slightly to inspect the injury more closely. But all he could see was a small hole in the blood-soaked fabric. Hooking his fingers into it, he tore the fabric open some more to reveal the jagged entry wound. As he had feared, the bullet had entered his shoulder right at the joint. But rather than going clean through, it seemed that it had lodged itself deep against the bone.

Matt swept the back of his hand across his brow, mopping up the glistening sweat, leaving a smear of blood in its place.

_No, this wasn't good at all._

Lifting his head, he directed an anxious glance into the direction he had come from for any sign of movement. So far, there was neither sign nor sound of his pursuers.

The thicket was peaceful and bright with filtered sunlight, but Matt didn't like the absolute and sudden silence that had fallen; he knew that Biggs and the other two were close on his trail. He realized that he didn't have much time if he wanted to stay ahead of Biggs and the most important thing at the moment was to stop the bleeding.

Swiftly, he pulled the bandanna from his back pocket and began to awkwardly wrap it around his shoulder. His left arm was tingling with the onset of numbness, the fingers refusing to obey and he had to use his teeth to aid him in tightening and knotting the cloth. Although he succeeded in slowing down the bleeding slightly, the pressure of the make-shift bandage also caused the wound to throb even worse.

Matt winced and sucked in a sharp breath though clenched teeth.

This was definitely a nice mess he had gotten himself into, and he fleetingly wondered how he was going to get himself out of it on his own. He was under no delusions of anyone coming to his aid any time soon. Even if Doc and Kitty made it back to Dodge in under two hours, it would take Chester at least another hour and a half to get here. He doubted whether he could last that long.

What he needed were his guns.

His gaze darted up the slope, trying to remember where exactly he had left his weapons, but not knowing where he was, it was impossible to tell. Matt forced down a surge of disappointment and glanced around the tree trunk again.

Shadows slid in and out between the closely intertwined trees surrounding him, the branches above swaying ever so slightly as if moved by invisible hands.

Except for the loud cawing of a black crow coming from somewhere above, everything was still quiet. He figured that Biggs, convinced that his injury would prevent him from getting very far, was most likely taking his time, tracking him slowly, stealthily like a hunter.

Whether he was a willing participant or not--the game had begun.

All he could do now was keep moving and try and stay a step ahead of Biggs.

A blood-covered palm splayed over the bark of the cottonwood as he pushed himself off its coarse trunk, a look of grim determination etched into his handsomely rugged features.

_to be continued..._


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

_x_

The heat of the midday sun pressed heavy on the sloping stretch of prairie and the rutted dirt road that wound its way down into the little valley. On either side of the trail, a thicket of tangled brush and cottonwood trees expanded down towards the base of the slope which eventually leveled out into the dry creek bed which was known as Cross Creek.

Doc Adams pushed the sweat-stained hat off his forehead and used his handkerchief to mob the glistening beads from his brow. Underneath his well-worn vest, the white shirt stuck to his back, already weighted with a thin strip of perspiration and he found himself thinking how welcome a nice, cold drink of water would be at the moment. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he turned and looked back down the rubble-strewn trail he had come from.

The glare of the sun hurt his eyes and the details of the landscape were lost in the dazzle, but he was able to see that the buggy with Kitty and the Crandall-children had ambled out of sight. The only evidence of its recent presence was the stirring cloud of dust it had left in its wake. Doc knew that she wouldn't stop until she had reached Dodge. But he also knew that even then, it would be a couple more hours until he could expect any help.

Not exactly comforting. All he could do was hope that it wouldn't come too late.

He'd never thought himself a hero nor thought himself exceptionally brave--all he knew was that someone needed his help and he would do everything in his power to give it. The fact that this 'someone' was a man that he had come to regard as one of his closest friends over the last four years, only firmed his resolve.

The thought that he could get hurt, maybe even lose his own life in the process, fleetingly occurred to him, but he wasn't afraid. Over the years, he had seen death in so many different forms that he had learned to accept it as an inevitable part of life. Besides, death wasn't always the worst thing that could happen to a man; he had lived long enough to know that much. In a country like this, experience and wisdom often beat out strength when it came to survival, but he knew that sooner or later there would come a day when experience and wisdom wasn't enough anymore...and strength would get lucky.

The doctor finally topped the rise and decided to leave the road in favor of the shadowy growth of cottonwoods to the right of it, mindful of the fact that Biggs and his men might be still outside and prematurely spot him.

He had taken no more than a handful of steps into the grove when a flicker of movement caught his eye.

Straight ahead, a small clearing stretched out amidst the trees and away off to one side stood a horse, contentedly munching away at the sparsely scattered grass. The animal was switching its tail. It was the movement Doc had seen.

When the buckskin took notice of the approaching doctor, he raised his head and perked his ears forward, snorting softly as if to greet him.

Doc quickly glanced around to make sure that no one was within sight and then shuffled over to Matt's mount.

"Well, hello there, boy," he said, patting the horse's neck, "I shoulda known that's where Matt left you."

He quickly checked the rifle boot attached to the saddle but was disappointed to find it empty. At least the water canteen was still there, looped over the saddlehorn.

He removed it and shook it, estimating the amount of water inside. It was almost full. The water tasted tepid and stale, but it was enough to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth and slake his thirst. When he had finished, he drove the stopper firmly back into place with a slap of his palm and slung the canteen over his shoulder.

The buckskin nuzzled the doctor's hand, wanting his share of the water.

Doc stroked his velvety nose.

"I'm sorry, fella but I'm afraid I can't let you have any," he said, "There's a good chance I might need it."

The animal snorted and swished his tail as if signaling understanding and returned to his grazing.

The doctor gave him a parting pat on the rump.

"Well, wish me luck," he muttered, more to himself than to the horse, and then moved out to disappear between the trees.

Walking slowly, cautiously, he began to pick a path through the dense undergrowth. Most of the ground was covered with brush and tangled deadfall and could trip a man easily if he wasn't careful.

It took him a good fifteen minutes to make it halfway down the slope. Deciding that he was close enough for now, he crouched behind a small clump of bushes from where he had a good view of the small valley and the homestead. Carefully, he parted the leafy branches and began to study the cluster of buildings below.

Everything was quiet, without any sign of Biggs or Matt. Of course, it was quite possible that they had gone back inside, but there was no way of knowing for sure unless he was got closer to the house.

His intent gaze continued to slowly travel across the yard. He noticed that the men's horses were still in the corral, confirming to him the fact that they hadn't left yet. That was good, he reasoned as he thoughtfully rubbed his chin, maybe they were still trying to decide what to do with Matt. But then he remembered the shots again and his heart sank.

_What if--_

He stopped himself, unwilling to finish the gruesome thought. No, if Matt was dead, surely Biggs and his men would've wasted no time and left as quickly as possible.

Doc scratched the back of his neck, trying to decide on the best course of action. But he didn't get a chance to think on it for very long.

The sudden sound of Biggs' voice startled him like a clap of thunder, abruptly cutting short his musings.

In a flash, he had dropped down lower behind the protective shelter of the bushes.

"Hey, Dillon! You still havin' fun?" he could hear Biggs call out, "I don't know about you, but I'm enjoyin' this!"

A nasty cackle followed that sent a cold ripple down the physician's back.

_x_

The doctor wasn't the only one who had heard Biggs' taunt. A good thirty yards below and off to the right, unbeknownst to him, Matt had heard it as well.

At the first sound, he had quickly pressed himself against the nearest tree, afraid the outlaw had caught sight of him. Now he carefully leaned around the side of it, attempting to get a glimpse of his pursuers.

He didn't have to search for very long; there was Biggs coming into view close to the base of the slope, flanked by Stanton and Kiley.

Matt was surprised to see that the outlaw had ventured only a few yards into the grove; he had fully expected him to be a lot closer by now. Then again, it was probably part of the other's twisted game, he realized grimly.

Biggs stopped, and Stanton and Kiley both veered off into the thicket in opposite directions.

Squatting on his haunches, Biggs began to study the ground with the practiced eye of a tracker, tracing his fingers over the sparse blades of grass.

Matt knew right away what he had found.

He scowled. Given the amount of blood he was losing, he was probably leaving a trail, a blind person could follow.

Biggs straightened slowly and turned his gaze up towards the thicket. He indulged in a savoring grin.

"Hey, Dillon! That's sure's a hell of a lotta blood you're leavin' ev'rywhere...you're almost makin' it a little too easy to be tracked!"

He wiped his fingers on his dusty jeans.

"Just do me a favor an' don't die before I can get there," he then hollered, "I got a mind to put a couple more bullets into you before you take your last breath!"

Matt's jaw tightened. There was no doubt in his mind that Biggs would do exactly that if given the chance.

He watched as Kiley now re-emerged from between the trees to Biggs' left. What he was carrying in his hands caused Matt to swear softly under his breath. It was his gunbelt, along with his Winchester.

_So much for that_, he thought frustrated to himself as he watched the two men briefly converse with one another. Kiley handed Biggs the Marshal's rifle and kept the colt for himself.

"Nice rifle," Matt could hear Biggs call out, watching as the outlaw lifted his Winchester up in the air, "I might just use it to kill you!" He followed his remark with another nasty laugh and then signaled Kiley and Stanton to split up and spread out again.

The three men began to move slowly and unhurriedly, their rifles up and ready before them.

_Like hunters tracking their prey_, Matt couldn't help but think. He carefully drew back behind the tree and rested the back of his head against its rough-textured bark, taking a few shallow breaths.

Without a weapon of some sort, he wouldn't stand a chance against those three. As much as he hated the idea of playing Biggs' game, he knew that he didn't have much of a choice; if he wanted to survive, he had to try and elude the others for as long as he could.

His face firmed

_No, he wouldn't give Biggs the satisfaction of winning, not if he could help it._

His body thrummed with the agony ripping apart his shoulder, but he couldn't allow himself to think about it. Ducking low, he clutched a sweat-slicked hand to his throbbing arm, holding it closely against his side and carefully retreated deeper into the protective shadows of the grove.

_x_

From the safety of his perch behind the intertwining mesh of branches, Doc had listened to Biggs' words with mounting anxiety.

From what the outlaw had said, the doctor was able to gather that Matt had managed to get away. That was good. The bad news was that he was apparently hurt.

Doc rubbed his mustache and drew a deep breath.

_Why, in thunder, didn't he bring his medical kit? How could he have left it in the buggy?_

Well, there was no sense in crying over spilled beans, he told himself firmly, the most important thing right now was to go and find Matt.

He no idea where to look for him, all he knew was that he had to find him before Biggs and his men did.

Remaining on his haunches, he carefully backed up a few steps, to remain out of sight of the men below and then straightened.

Despite the shade of the closely intertwined trees, the air inside the grove was heavy and oppressively hot. Thin rivulets of sweat ran down the nape of his neck where they soaked into his shirt collar.

He pulled the handkerchief from his pants pocket and, blotting his damp neck with it, began to study the downward sloping hillside in front of him.

While straight down would certainly be the quickest way, it was also the most dangerous, and he'd probably end up on his backside right in front of the outlaws.

No, he couldn't take that chance; it would be safer to take the long way down and circle around. It would also give him a better chance to remain on the look-out for Matt.

Slowly, cautiously, he started making his way down the grade at a forty-five degree angle away from the road.

He hadn't been walking for more that maybe a few minutes when a distinct rustling noise coming from the brush somewhere below suddenly drew his attention. Right away, he ducked behind the nearest bush.

The little hairs on the back of his neck started to prickle. It was a sensation he had come to trust over the years and so far, it had seldom disappointed him.

He listened intently.

Again he heard the soft noise and it seemed to be closer than before.

Breathing a little faster, Doc felt his muscles tense, his heart thumping loudly in chest. He hadn't expected for the outlaws to be that close already and he suddenly found himself wishing he had his old shotgun.

_Old fool, _he chided himself_, why did you have to take the gun from the buggy__yesterday?_

He frequently brought it along to supplement his pantry with the occasional prairie chicken. But this time he had left it behind on account of Kitty and the children.

Doc moved his eyes over the ground and spied a stout piece of wood amongst the leaves and rotting debris that littered the ground. He picked it up just as the rustling sounded again, this time very close.

He tightened his white-knuckled grip on the make-shift club and held his breath, afraid that the sound might give away his presence. The brush was too thick and tangled for him to see through and make out anything and he dared not lift his head any higher so he strained his ears and listened.

The ever so soft whisper of twigs scraping across clothing suddenly sounded to his immediate right.

Now he could feel someone's feet make the earth tremble beneath his fingers.

His heart was pounding, filling his ears like the crescendo from a bass drum beating louder and louder in his head as he felt the tension mount.

Seconds later, a pair of scuffed boots crossed his line of vision and then stopped a few feet in front of him.

Doc sat quietly, barely breathing now as he concentrated on not giving away his position.

The boots shuffled a little as their owner turned and looked behind himself, not realizing that by doing so, he left his back vulnerable to the physician.

Doc saw his chance and acted. With a surprising agility that belied his age, he surged from his cover and threw himself forward, the club raised high in his right.

_x_

The sudden snap of a twig alerted Matt, and at the last second he realized the danger coming from behind. He whirled around and barely managed to side-step the blow that had been aimed squarely at his head.

In a flash, his hand had grabbed his attacker's arm, trapping it in mid-air in a grip of iron.

"Doc!?"

Matt gaped at him in mingled confusion and disbelief.

He let go of his friend's wrist.

"Matt?" the physician exclaimed, equally bewildered, "what, in thunderation, you're doin', sneakin'--" He suddenly broke off and lowered the club. "You know that I almost--"

He shook his head, realizing how close he had come to knocking out the very man he had been searching for.

The Marshal spared a quick glance at the rather pathetic-looking weapon in the doctor's hand.

"Doc, what're you doin' here?"

There was a bit of a snap in Matt's voice, prompting the doctor to stare at him with a mixture of surprise and hurt. _Wasn't it obvious why he was here?_

"Well, good to see you, too, Marshal," he groused, annoyed by Matt's obvious lack of appreciation for his presence. "I thought you could use a little help."

He fixed the lawman with a rankled look, but then his gaze slid down to Matt's blood-soaked shirt. In an instant, the edge of irritation fled, quelled by deep concern.

"For Heaven's sakes...looks to me, like they got you pretty good!" He reached for Matt's arm. "Here, let me see--"

Matt gave a slow shake of his head.

"Never mind about that right now," he dismissed him with a quick glance at his bloody shoulder.

Although a small part of him was glad to see the doctor, the more rational part of his mind wasn't too pleased that his friend had so willingly placed himself in danger. It meant that now he not only had his own life to worry about, but also the doctor's as well. Suddenly, the shoulder seemed the lesser of his problems.

"Where are Kitty and the children?" he now asked, hoping dearly that they weren't anywhere nearby.

Doc sniffed and briskly swiped a hand across his mustache, thinking it a fool question to ask.

"They're safely on their way back to Dodge to get help," he said, taking care to keep his voice low despite the rising irritation he felt, "now let me take a look at that shoulder."

He reached out again, but Matt's raised hand stopped him short.

"Later, Doc, we don't have time for that now."

Now the doctor was even less happy with the lawman. Being displeased with his desire to help was one thing. Keeping him from doing his job was entirely another.

"Well, confounded...if you're not the most pig-headed--"

But Doc got no further.

"Look,...I mean it," Matt broke in sharply, cutting the physician off with a direct glance, "Biggs is out there somewhere after me an'--"

"I know," the doctor dismissed him with an impatient gesture, "I heard that big oaf holler for you."

Matt took a slow breath, summoning what little patience he had left; obviously, Doc didn't quite understand the seriousness of the situation.

"Now, Doc, look here--" he started to say, a distinct edge of exasperation in his voice, "you can--"

But the rest of his sentence was suddenly cut short by the unmistakable sound of Biggs' booming voice as it carried through the thicket.

"Hey, Marshal, that shoulder hurtin' you bad?"

Biggs gave a short, sharp bark of savage laughter, adding, "hell, I sure hope so!"

Matt pressed his lips together and cautiously glanced around the trunk again just long enough to catch a glimpse of Biggs. The outlaw was slowly, steadily pushing his way through the brush up towards them, parting branches and bushes with the Winchester as he went.

Backing away from the tree, Matt took a steadying breath against the bone deep throb of raw agony that sent pain streaking down into his arm and across his back and shoulder. He found that if he didn't move too much, the pain retreated to a throbbing distraction but unfortunately, that wasn't an option at the moment.

They couldn't remain here, they had to get moving.

The last thing he wanted to happen was for the doctor to fall into the hands of the outlaws. He knew that they wouldn't be too pleased to see him again, and he hated to think of what they might do to him if they caught him.

Sweat stippled his upper lip and glistened on his brow, plastering several unruly curls to his forehead. Carefully pressing his palm against his bleeding shoulder, Matt squared himself, hoping against hope that Doc didn't catch on to how bad he was really feeling.

With a nod of his head, he indicated the denser trees further up the slope.

"We better get movin'," he said, purposely ignoring Doc's concentrated gaze on him, and before the doctor had a chance to protest, Matt had already begun to nudge him along.

_to be continued..._


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

_x_

The little boy beside her saw it before she did.

A tiny dot at first as it broached the far horizon, the wagon crawled slowly across the expanse of the prairie, steadily inching its way down the rutted dirt trail.

"Miz Kitty, look!"

Rory's excited shout stirred her from her desolate thoughts.

Kitty turned, her expression questioning.

"What is it?"

Rory was literally bouncing in his seat with excitement.

"Looky there!" he called, pointing with an out-flung arm straight ahead.

Squinting against the bright glare of midday sunlight, Kitty let her gaze follow in the direction the boy's finger was pointing.

Heat devils shimmered and danced on patches of rocky soil. They distorted perspective and made it hard to discern details but the wagon and the rider, silhouetted darkly against the bright blue summer sky in the far distance were clearly visible. To Kitty, there couldn't have been a more welcome sight and she could hardly contain her relief.

Kitty and Rory exchanged a quick, tentative smile before she sent the reins snapping down onto the horse's back, urging it into a swift jog.

As the buggy continued to bounce across the rutted trail, Kitty saw that the driver of the other wagon had apparently taken notice of her; he was now pointing in the direction of the buggy.

The rider brought his mount alongside the wagon and leaned towards the driver. They seemed to converse briefly and then he straightened in the saddle again. Seconds later, he broke away. Urging his horse into a swift canter, he headed straight towards the buggy.

Her heart pounding with anticipation, Kitty watched him approach, the pounding of the horse's hooves stirring up billowing clouds of dust.

She didn't know who they were--all she knew was that their presence meant getting help for Matt and Doc.

It was all that mattered at this very moment.

Slowing the horse down with a tug on the reins, Kitty brought the buggy to a shuddering halt, allowing the rider to close the last of the distance between them.

The rhythmic drumming of hooves grew louder as the dark, fused form of man and beast was covering the remaining ground quickly.

Across the steadily shrinking distance, Kitty could tell that the rider's right leg was sticking out straight, away from the horses' body--almost as if it was stiff.

There was only one person she knew of that fit that description.

Chester.

As horse and man drew nearer, the all too familiar face of the Marshal's assistant solidified. Never had Kitty been happier to see the gangly young man and at once, a new sense of purpose settled over her; she knew that Chester would see to it that Matt and Doc would be safe.

Beside her, Rory jumped to his feet upon recognizing the jailer and began to wave both hands over his head, shouting excitedly. Right away, Carrie crawled to stand on the seat and joined in, but Kitty put a quick end to it, afraid the little girl might fall off.

A short moment later, Chester had reached the buggy. He hauled the sweating chestnut to a dancing, prancing stop and leapt from the saddle before the animal had even come to a complete halt.

"Miss Kitty...boy, am I sure glad to see you," he gasped the second his booted feet hit the dust with a thud, "my goodness...we was just gettin' plump worried--"

The rest of his words never made it past his lips.

As soon as he saw the expression on her face, he knew that something terrible had happened.

_x_

A heavy silence was hanging over the grove. It seemed that even the creatures living in it had stilled, straining to listen for the unknown danger that intruded upon their presence.

The doctor was fully aware of it. He wondered if Matt was, too.

Not a single word had passed between them for the last ten minutes as they had angled their way through the thicket, backtracking every few minutes in hopes of eluding Biggs and buy themselves more time.

Doc's worried eyes contemplated the tall man that was doggedly plowing onwards a few yards ahead of him. The back of his shirt was darkened with sweat, the bandanna tied high to his upper arm soaked in blood. He couldn't help but wonder how much longer his friend would be able to keep up the pace.

His question was unexpectedly answered as the Marshal suddenly staggered to a halt.

Right away, Doc dropped the club he had been hanging on to and came to his aid.

"Easy now, Matt, easy," he warned as he helped him lean against the trunk of the nearest cottonwood.

The lawman didn't protest.

With his right shoulder propped against the gnarled trunk, his left arm now lax at his side, he hung his head, drinking in uneven gulps of thick, dust-flecked air. Sweat glistened in the wavy tangles of his hair, dripping off the curling ends and into his eyes.

His head was heavy and his body ached and all he longed for was for the pain to stop.

Broken rays of sunlight fell through the leafy canopy above, painting his pallid features with dancing flecks of light.

Matt could feel the doctor's eyes on him.

His right cheek scraped against coarse bark as he lifted his gaze.

"I'm--I'm all right, Doc...I just--just need a minute..."

A wave of nausea suddenly washed over him and he closed his eyes against it.

The physician scowled, not sure who Matt was trying to fool--it certainly wasn't him. But he refrained from saying it aloud, taking the opportunity to study his friend more closely instead. He noticed that despite the heat, the lawman's face was alarmingly pale. It was a sure sign that the blood loss was beginning to take its toll.

He shifted his gaze to the injured shoulder. The amount of blood that was still pumping from the wound gave him reason to believe that the bullet had probably nicked an artery and he was sorely tempted to inspect the injury despite Matt's objections.

He reached for the shoulder, but his hand suddenly froze in mid-air.

"HEY, DILLON!"

The unwelcome sound of Biggs' voice cut through the thicket as steely and cold as the blade of a knife.

"Sure looks like you're bleedin' a hell of a lot...you think you gonna last much longer?"

Doc's face twitched with anger.

"Why, that fella's just plumb crazy!" he declared outraged.

Matt opened his eyes and managed to flash him something that resembled a grim smile. When he spoke, his voice was just a sliver of its normal strength.

"Yeah, that's...puttin' it...mildly."

He glanced at his shoulder and grimaced. The left side of his shirt was blood-soaked from his shoulder on down to his stomach and crusted dark red in other places. He could smell the coppery tang of his blood, the mere scent of it making him sick.

Matt drew a careful breath.

He could feel the doctor's intense gaze on him again, studying him with worried eyes. He knew what Doc was thinking and the words that remained unspoken hung heavily between them.

_There was no time for explanations now. They had to move on. If they could just make it to where he had left his horse this morning--_

Determined, his hand, shaking and sweaty, locked down onto the doctor's shoulder. He straightened with considerable effort, biting back a cry at the pain that the movement evoked.

He swallowed thickly, forcing his voice to sound steady.

"Come on...we--we can't...stay here."

But Doc didn't budge, leveling the full weight of his frustrated glare upon his friend. This was going against all sensibility and he found that he couldn't restrain himself no longer.

"By thunder," he groused angrily, "you gonna bleed to death if you don't let me take care of you, Marshal!"

Matt locked gazes with him for one stubborn moment.

He could see the anxious concern reflected in the doctor's deep amber eyes. He hated being the cause of that worry, wanted nothing more than allow him to examine his shoulder, but there simply wasn't time right now.

Biggs was quickly closing in on them. This was his game, his call and all he could do was try and stay a step ahead of him--especially now that he had Doc to worry about, too. There was no time to fret over the punishing agony in his shoulder, the nausea that squeezed his stomach and made him choke back bile.

He shook his head slightly.

"We're...both gonna...be dead...if they--if they...catch up with us..."

Pushing himself off the physician's shoulder, he tentatively cupped his right hand against the wound. Right away, blood saturated his fingers. He could feel the sticky wetness seeping through his shirt, plastering the fabric to his body.

"Let's go," he said through tightly clenched teeth.

The doctor hesitated, his expression an odd combination of deep concern and frustration at Matt's stubbornness. Unfortunately, he knew the lawman well enough to realize that no amount of arguing could change his mind and he finally relented. Muttering under his breath, he began to follow after him once again.

_x_

"Don't you worry a thing, Miss Kitty," reassured Chester, "ev'rything's gonna be all right. You just go on back into Dodge with Missus Crandall here an' let us handle this." He gestured with his head at the woman that was sitting atop the plank seat of an old buckboard wagon.

Millie Crandall was a short and pleasingly plump woman in her early fifties. Her warm, kind face was framed by graying hair which she wore in a single, thick plait that hung down the middle of her back.

She responded to Chester's words with a kind smile. Little Carrie was already sitting in her aunt's lap, sucking contentedly on a chunk of horehound.

Kitty acknowledged the older woman, forcing a little smile to flicker across her lips and then turned back to the young man at her side. It was then that her carefully erected facade of self-control finally began to crumble and the fear came on, complete and overwhelming.

"Oh, Chester--"

She choked on the words, a shaky breath expanding her chest as she fought for control. "I'm just so worried--"

Her teeth clamped down hard onto her bottom lip to keep it from trembling and she dropped her head against his chest, suddenly unable to hold back the flow of tears any longer.

The tremor in her voice made Chester realize with slight shock that she was actually crying. He swallowed hard, unable to stop the fierce anger that was beginning to well up inside him. Anger at the men that were the cause of her distress. He raised his hand and began to awkwardly pat her back.

"Miss Kitty, oh please don't cry. I'll see to it that nothing's gonna happen to Mister Dillon an' Doc...I promise you that."

Kitty sniffed and straightened away. She lifted her gaze and looked up at him from red-rimmed eyes.

There was nothing but sincerity and fierce determination in those whiskey-colored eyes that lingered so anxiously over her face. She knew that she could count on him to do everything in his power to help Matt and Doc.

Rory reached up and touched his hand to Kitty's arm, trying to offer his own bit of comfort.

"Don't you worry, Miz Kitty, them men cain't hurt the Marshal," he said, "he's way too smart fer them."

Touched by the little boy's words so sincerely spoken, Kitty managed a brittle smile. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Yes, Rory, I'm sure you're right."

Her eyes caught a flash of light as the sun reflected off the badge pinned to the boy's shirt. She bit down hard on her lip again, fighting back a shudder.

_Dear God, let's hope so, _she desperately thought to herself.

"Marsal?" Carrie now crowed from her aunt's lap upon overhearing her brother say the name. She cocked her head inquiringly, wondering where the big man was.

"Chester," Luke Crandall suddenly spoke up, "we better get goin'."

He had already turned the doctor's buggy around and was now waiting for the Marshal's assistant to join him.

Chester acknowledged the older man with a nod and then turned to Kitty.

"Please, Miss Kitty, you best get goin' now," he said gently as he pointed towards the buckboard where Mrs. Crandall had already placed Carrie in her brother's lap and taken up the reins.

Reluctantly, Kitty nodded. Although she didn't want to leave, she knew that there was nothing else left for her to do out here.

"Please be careful, Chester."

The young man nodded sincerely.

"I sure will, now don't you worry."

He held out to his hand to her and she allowed him to help her up onto the wagon.

Numbly, she watched as Chester mounted up and nudged the horse into a canter while Luke Crandall followed closely behind with the doctor's buggy.

Soon, the two men had disappeared in a lingering cloud of dust and the buckboard lurched into motion with the sharp creaking of wheels that were badly in need of some axle grease.

All that was left for her to do now was hope and pray. Hope and pray that Chester and Luke weren't too late.

_x_

Knowing that Biggs was close on their trail, Matt and Doc made the best speed they could as they continued to angle through the thicket, but it had become slow and laborious progress. The ground was difficult, steep at times and uneven, and the tangled underbrush hampered every step. Every few yards, Matt threw a long, searching look back over his shoulder. He saw nothing save bushes and trees, but he knew that didn't count for anything.

He had no idea how far ahead they were of their pursuers. He doubted it was far enough. They were leaving a trail behind them that a blind person might follow, but there and then, he could think of no way to avoid it.

Soon, it became an effort for him to walk and he had to lean upon Doc more and more to make it through the more rigorous parts of the tangled brush. He was clinging to consciousness with grim determination, but he wasn't finding it easy. His strength was steadily leaking away with the blood that still flowed freely from the wound.

Finally, the exhaustion caught up with him. Too drained and fatigued to maintain the illusion of stamina any longer, he staggered into the doctor.

In an instant, Doc's hand beneath his elbow steadied him.

"Easy there, Matt," he urged, bracing his feet against the much taller man's weight as it pressed down onto his shoulder.

The doctor lifted his head, quickly taking a look around. A little off to the left, he found a small grassy patch amongst a denser clump of trees, a spot where sunlight filtered in dusty shafts through high branches.

With a nod of his head, he indicated the spot.

"Let's get you over there," he said, wasting no time in tugging the Marshal over to a fallen log.

This time, Matt offered no resistance.

With a groan, voiced as much from frustration as from pain, he slid down onto the leaf-strewn ground, his back against the fallen log.

_He had gone as far as he could. He felt sick and weak and so very, very tired._

It angered Matt that his body was betraying him and that he was unable to do anything about it. His chin dropped onto his chest as he ran a hand through his hair, scattering sweat-dampened curls across his forehead. His long legs stretched out in front of him, his left arm lay numb and useless in his lap, his fingers clumsy appendages, barely capable of simple contraction.

His blood roared loudly in his ears and only vaguely did Matt register that the doctor had stripped off his coat and bundled it into a rough pillow to place it between his head and the log.

He heard the plop as Doc wrenched the stopper from the canteen. Moments later, he felt it touch his cracked lips.

"Matt...come on an' drink, it'll do you good,"said Doc as he tipped the canteen a little more so that the luke-warm water trickled past his lips and into his mouth.

Matt managed to swallow a little and immediately felt the flutter of gut-wrenching nausea leap to his throat the moment the water hit the bottom of his stomach. He turned his head away, indicating that he didn't want anymore.

_He was tired, just so tired._

"Can't...stay...gotta...move," he whispered, trying to instill a sense of urgency in his friend.

Doc stoppered the canteen and set it aside.

"No, Matt, you've done about all the movin' you're gonna do for a while," he said softly yet firmly, "now let me take a look at that dead-blamed shoulder."

The tone of his voice was such that brooked no argument and this time, Matt didn't protest when Doc began to untie the bloody bandanna and examine the wound.

He didn't like what he was seeing; the area around the entry wound was tender and swollen, a sure sign of the onset of infection. The bullet, it seemed, had lodged somewhere deep against the joint which would account for the loss of movement in the limb.

Grim-faced, he began to re-fasten the bandanna moment later. He fetched his own kerchief from his coat pocket, adding it to the Marshal's.

Matt's breath hitched between his teeth as Doc yanked the make-shift bandage tight in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. A dark red stain was spreading through the white cloth before he had even finished tying the knot.

"Well, let's see here," he muttered as he laid his hand on the lawman's sweat-sheened forehead to gauge his level of fever.

It wasn't high, but Doc wasn't fooled by that; he knew that Matt was in grave danger as long as that bullet remained in his shoulder. But the question of how to give him the help he needed was a difficult one.

His mouth was a tight white line, heavy salt and pepper brows knitted above worried brown eyes as he sat back on his heels and studied his friend's ashen face. It ate away at him that there was nothing more he could do for him--not as long as they were out here anyway.

"Matt," he began quietly, rubbing his chin, "you know...you lost a lot of blood--an awful lot. "

The seriousness in Doc's tone compelled Matt to open his eyes. Though he had to struggle to organize his thoughts, it still was perfectly clear to him what the physician was implying.

He wet his lips.

"That...bad, huh?"

Something faltered in the doctor's expression.

_It was more than bad_.

Running a slow hand through his mustache, he exchanged a long glance with the lawman. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, filled with regret.

"I done all I can for you. That bullet's gotta come out before I can stop the bleeding and I can't do that here."

Matt understood and nodded, accepting it.

_So. That was it. His luck had finally run out_.

Strangely, he found that it didn't bother him too much. At least he had the satisfaction of having led Biggs on a merry chase for a lot longer than the outlaw had expected. Not bad, he thought, considering he was without weapon, wounded and had no idea where the hell he was going. If it hadn't been for the bullet wound, he might have had a shot, but between the blood loss and the weakness resulting from it, Matt knew that he was only buying time against the inevitable. Be it from his injury or another bullet from Biggs, the outcome was going to be the same: this time, he wasn't going to make it.

He knew that he was going to die.

Nothing he could do about it.

There was no sense in Doc risking his life, too. Biggs still didn't know that he was with him, leaving the doctor a good chance to slip away undetected.

"Doc," he gritted hoarsely, struggling to focus on the older man crouching before him, "I...want you...to get...outta here...go...find my...horse an 'go...go away--"

The doctor rubbed his neck, forcing himself to keep a tight reign on his emotions. Each word was like a knife driven in his chest.

"I'm not goin' anywhere, Marshal," he replied calmly, "so you might as well save your breath."

It was very clear from the expression on his face, his own safety was the last thing on his mind and Matt realized that no amount of arguing could change that.

Thinking clearly was becoming harder and harder._ He was tired. Just so damn tired._

Before he allowed his eyes to drift shut again, he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'old quack' to the doctor's ears.

A ghost of a smile flickered across Doc's lips.

_How many times had Matt called him that?_ He couldn't remember. Feeling the sudden need to do something, he leaned forward and began to fidget with the blood-soaked handkerchief for what little good it did.

"Now Matt, you just go on an' lie still an' rest some," he muttered, "it's gonna be all right."

It was a lie and both of them knew it.

If he had the strength, Matt would have been angry, insisted on him getting the hell out of here; instead, all he was able to do was close his eyes in acceptance of the darkness that was now nipping more insistently at the edges of his senses.

Doc scrubbed at the bristly stubble that had begun to sprout along his jawline as he stared at the younger man before him in silent frustration.

_No, their odds weren't good, but as far as he was concerned, it wasn't over yet_.

Matt had lost too much blood, was in no shape to continue on and Biggs was quickly closing in on them. The only option left, he thought, was to stay and fight.

He considered the opposition. Three men, armed to their teeth and out for blood, and all he had was a half-rotten tree limb that barely qualified as a weapon. Hardly a fair match.

He watched the Marshal's chest rise and fall with shallow breaths.

_No, he'd be damned if he left Matt to fall into their hands. _

The muffled voices of Biggs and the two others were drifting to his ear again and Doc stilled. Ever so careful, he inched a cautious head above the leafy shrubs and took a long and careful look around.

Sure enough, there they were, no more than forty yards away, still moving slowly, still taking their time.

Beside him, Matt had heard it as well. He fluttered his eyelids, then opened them, struggling to get up. He was stopped short by the doctor's hand, firmly placed on his chest.

"Sshh...keep still," Doc cautioned softly.

Matt swallowed, then nodded and relaxed back against the log. He watched as the physician turned and peered through the bushes again.

"Can--can...you...see 'em?" he demanded in a weak whisper.

Doc took another long look through the greenery before he responded.

"No...no sign of them," he lied, watching the slowly approaching men with a feeling akin to cold dread.

_Like predators closing in on their kill._

The notion caused a shutter to run down his back.

Always a practical man, he didn't try to fool himself for a minute. He knew that neither he, nor Matt was going to survive the encounter unless he came up with something quickly.

"You...sure?" wondered Matt again. His voice held the beginnings of suspicion, something that would not bode well for the plan, the doctor was already devising.

He finally turned and found his friend looking straight at him. Quickly, he cleared the concern from his face.

"You just lie still, Matt," he instructed him softly with a reassuring pat on his good shoulder and then rose to stand.

As he saw it, the men were still several minutes away. Enough time if he didn't draw untimely attention to himself.

He stared down at the lawman, giving him one last, long considering look. Beads of perspiration were glistening on his bushy brow and trickling down his cheek as he thought of what he was about to do.

"I'm sorry, Matt," he said quietly, "but I don't know what else to do--"

The doctor's words had been little more than a soft whisper, but some vague intuition alerted Matt to the fact that something wasn't right. His eyes flew open the instant it registered. Blinking, he tried to focus his unstable vision, alarmed when he saw the doctor moving away from him--straight towards Biggs and the others.

"Doc, what--"

Suddenly realizing what the physician was about to do, Matt tried to climb to his feet but the dizziness set him off balance. With a muffled groan, he sank back down.

"Get...back...here," he ground out frustrated, "you're...goin' the...wrong...way..."

The physician stopped and turned to glance over his shoulder.

"I know, Matt."

Matt tried pushing himself up on his haunches. Small stones and rocks pressed painfully into his palm, a distraction he barely registered.

"Doc...don't--"

The words were bitten off in a deep-throated groan as he folded back onto the ground.

His head was reeling and he was forced to watch helplessly as the doctor disappeared amongst the trees, the crunch of his shoes on broken twigs and dried leaves quickly fading away in the distance.

"Dammit...Doc--"

Despite his desperate efforts to resist, his eyelids drooped shut again and then there was nothing more but the insubstantial mist that came with unconsciousness.

_to be continued..._


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

_x_

He knew that they were close.

Closer than he would have liked.

He could feel their presence, dark and ominous, hovering at his back.

With scant seconds to spare, Doc paused just long enough to chance another glance over his shoulder. He wasn't able to see them yet, but he knew that they were there all the same.

_Too soon_, he decided, _he couldn't allow them to catch up with him just yet_.

Grimly determined, he pushed forward. The soles of his shoes crunched against the sparse grass, bending soft, subtle blades back to the earth as he angled his way deeper into the shadow-draped trees.

For the last fifteen minutes he had led them on a chase, making just enough noise and disturbance to keep his pursuers coming, all the while leading them deeper into the grove.

He had no idea where he was headed; he had given up on trying to orient himself soon after he had set out to lure Biggs away from Matt. Around him, trees blended in similar patterns no matter what the direction. Shape and bearing became meaningless in the maze of contorted branches.

Suddenly, a sound he had begun to dread more than any other, broke over the thicket again--Biggs' voice.

"Hey, Dillon--why don't you just give it up...I might even make it quick for you!"

The outlaw's voice sidled into Doc's mind like a needle into an exposed wound. Laughter fluttered behind him--the mocking amusement of his pursuers ringing in his ears.

_Not if I can help it_, he thought to himself as he stubbornly plodded on.

He heard the harsh scrape of his shoes against rocks and fallen branches as he rushed along. Debris rolled from beneath his heels, dislodged by the hurried strike of his feet. He heard the rasp of his own breath, eclipsing with the snapping of twigs and crunch of leaves coming from somewhere behind him.

They were moving faster now.

He could tell.

The doctor sped up his own step.

"Dillon," Biggs' voice sounded again, "I'm startin' to get a little tired of this!"

This time, there was an unmistakable edge of irritation in the outlaw's voice.

_Good, _Doc thought upon noticing, _have a taste of your own medicine, mister._

Undeterred, he pressed on.

Low-hanging branches snagged his clothing, a bony twig scraped against his cheek, coaxing a string of blood to the surface. It trickled over his skin like the filmy thread of a cobweb brushing over his face, but he barely took notice of it.

His thoughts drifted to Matt.

_Hang in there, Matt...you just hang in there--it's gonna be all right_, he muttered to himself, wishing that the muttering would make it so.

He fleetingly wondered whether Kitty had made it back to Dodge yet, whether help was on its way. Maybe it was too soon, he didn't know. It seemed he had lost all sense of time. All he could do was hope and pray. Hope and pray that he would be able to lead his pursuers far enough away that, in the event they caught him before Chester arrived, they wouldn't be able to find Matt--at least, he hoped, not very quickly.

Behind him the crack of breaking branches grew louder.

Doc forced himself to walk faster, knowing that he couldn't allow those men to catch up with him. Around him, the thicket grew ever denser, ever deeper with underbrush and intertwining trees. His heart thundered in his chest, the air thick and hot, like liquid heat burning in his lungs.

He ran a hand across his face to wipe the sweat from it, irritated at the slow, trickling sensation against his skin.

_Faster. He had to move faster._

His throat felt tight, constricted and his stomach tightened into a thick knot as his feet continued to pound over the uneven, leaf and rubble-strewn ground.

He needed more air. Without stopping, he tugged his stringtie loose and opened the first two buttons on his shirt.

Suddenly, from behind him a shout erupted, making the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end.

"THERE HE IS!"

Doc swallowed, the sound loud and foreboding in his ears.

He knew the game had come to an end.

_x_

"We better go the rest of the way on foot, Chester," suggested Luke Crandall when the two men had reached the crest of the rise a short while later, "wouldn't want those fellers catch sight of us too soon."

The Marshal's assistant drew his chestnut abreast the buggy and reined him to a halt. Squinting beneath the brim of his battered hat against the bright glare of sunlight, he quickly took stock of his surroundings. He hadn't been out this way in quite some time and it took him a moment to re-familiarize himself with the terrain.

"Yeah," he said agreeing, "maybe we just oughtta leave them horses here."

Luke nodded and began to look around. Cross Creek had been his home for little over a year now and during that time he had managed to become intimately familiar with virtually every tree and rock on his property.

"All right, how about over there?"

He pointed to a spot a little ways off to the right where the trees appeared less dense, almost as if they were forming a path into the grove.

It looked like a good spot to Chester.

With customary ease, he swung his stiff right leg over the horse's croup and let himself down. He had never felt at a disadvantage on account of his infirmity. It was something he had learned to live with over the years and most of the time didn't even think about it.

Taking one of the reins, he led his mount off the trail and into the shadows of the thicket.

The densely clustered trees offered a welcome shield from prying eyes as well as protection from the midday sun's scorching rays for man and beast.

"Well, now looky there," he suddenly exclaimed surprised when he spotted the familiar form of the Marshal's buckskin grazing peacefully a short distance away, "that's Mister Dillon's horse."

Behind Chester, branches crunched and twigs snapped, yielding under the weight of the buggy's wheels as Luke Crandall lead the doctor's bay into the small clearing.

At the noise, the buckskin snorted and side-stepped nervously, his ears flicking back and forth, but the sound of Chester's familiar voice quickly calmed him and he greeted his two stable mates with a soft nicker.

Luke took a quick look around.

"Well, I reckon this is as good a spot as any," he said, as he dragged a hand though the thick graying hair butted against his collar.

Chester couldn't agree more and wasted no time looping the reins loosely on a low-hanging branch. He pulled his rifle from the scabbard and made his way back towards the edge of the thicket.

Luke followed suit and pulled the buggy up on the other side of the buckskin where he removed the anchor weight from the floorboard and secured it to the horse's bridle.

He retrieved his own rifle from the seat and moved to join Chester who was already busy scrutinizing the homestead below from behind a dense cluster of shrubs.

"See anythin' down there?" Luke wondered as he came up alongside him, crouching down on his haunches.

Using the barrel of his Winchester, Chester parted the tangle of leafy branches some more.

"Well, I sure can't make out too much from up here," he answered as he craned his neck some more, "but there's a couple of horses in the corral--they're yours, Crandall?"

Keeping the branches parted with his rifle, he invited Luke to take a look himself.

The homesteader moved up closer and took a quick glance to confirm what he already knew.

"No, Chester, they sure ain't mine," he replied, "that team you saw's the only ones I got."

Luke's words didn't really come as too much of a surprise to Chester. He already had a pretty good idea whose mounts they were.

"That means they're still down there somewhere," he concluded as he continued to let his intent gaze roam about the yard. "You think they could still be inside?"

Luke didn't answer immediately, his own eyes still lingering on his homestead below. The notion that these men might be inside his house didn't sit too well with him but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment. He scratched behind his ear and turned.

"It sure's possible," he conceded, "but we don't know that for sure unless we go down there. For all we know, they could've taken Marshal Dillon an' your doc somewhere out back to take care--"

Abruptly, Luke fell silent when he realized what he had been about to say. But it was already too late--the stricken expression on the other's face was testament to that.

Chester stared at him and swallowed hard, suddenly remembering the many shots that had echoed across the prairie earlier.

"You don't think they already...I mean--" he broke off weakly, unable to finish speaking out the terrifying thought that was racing through his mind.

Drawing back, Luke straightened and removed his worn slouch hat to mop the sweat from his brow. Then he lifted his gaze, his alert steel-gray eyes now contemplating Chester thoughtfully.

"No, Chester, I don't think so," he said with a slow shake of his head, "I know their kind, they're in no hurry. They're probably feelin' mighty safe right now, knowin' how long it's gonna take to get from here to Dodge. They're not expectin' anyone for at least several more hours. If we can get down there without them seein' us, I think we'll stand a good chance at catchin' those fellas off guard."

Luke knew what he was speaking of. Too many times had he crossed paths with men like Biggs; unpredictable like a cornered bear, but predictable when they felt that they held all the aces. He knew that at the moment, Biggs thought he held all four aces clenched tightly in his hand and a king as well.

Chester regarded him, his expression now curious. He had figured from the very beginning that there was a lot more to Luke Crandall than what the man had been willing to let on. But the way he was talking now, he almost sounded a little like Mister Dillon.

His gaze dropped and he cast a slightly wary glance at the big .58 caliber Swiss rifle in Luke's callused hands. That gun was certainly big enough to blast a hole the size of Kansas into any buffalo. He hated to think what it would do to a man. One thing was for certain--homesteaders and sodbusters didn't carry that type of a weapon.

Chester's concentrated stare was not lost on Luke. His own eyes dipped to the gun in his hands.

"Like it?"

Chester shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, to tell ya the truth, Luke, it ain't so much whether I like it," he hedged, not quite sure how to put it, "it's just--ya know, I ain't seen too many men carryin' around a rifle like that--'cept maybe for some ole buffalo hunter that is."

A flicker of a smile curved underneath Luke's droopy mustache.

"Well, let me tell ya, I sure hunted my share with it," he said, casting another wistful glance at the rifle in his hands, "but it wasn't buffalo I was after."

"It wasn't?" asked Chester, clearly puzzled.

Luke smiled, but it was a rather grim smile.

"No, it was men like your Dan Biggs down there," he went on to say, "for twenty years I chased after the likes of him."

_A bounty hunter. It was as simple as that. Luke Crandall was nothing more but a bounty hunter_.

A scowl darkened Chester's features. He considered bounty hunters the lowest form of man there was.

_Scum. Nothing more. About as useful as a frothy dog. It was a crying shame--Luke Crandall had struck him as such a nice fella._

"You mean you was a bounty hunter?" he said out loud, his disappointment apparent in his voice.

Luke's eyes swept over him, mildly amused, and he couldn't help but chuckle softly at the crestfallen expression on the younger man's face.

"No, I was no bounty hunter--never cared much for 'em myself. But as Sheriff I had to deal with them more often than I cared for."

Chester's expression lightened considerably.

"You was a lawman?" he said.

The older man gave a clipped nod.

"Yessir. I was Sheriff over in Lamar, Colorader. For twenty years, Chester...twenty long years."

His voice suddenly trailed off, almost as if he was afraid that he had revealed too much already. His face closed and he drew himself up straight, his desire to change the subject obvious.

"Come on," he said firmly, focusing his attention back to the pressing matter at hand, "we'd better figure out a way to get down there without them seein' us."

Parting the branches again, he indicated the right side of the house with a nod.

"I say we try circlin' around this way. There ain't no windows on this side an' chances are they won't even notice us."

Chester followed his gaze and was about to reply, but his words got lost in the sharp crack of a rifle shot.

_x_

Matt came awake with a jerk, thrust back into a world crippled by pain. Returning consciousness brought a new influx of agony--the brutal torment ripping through his shoulder and back with merciless abandon.

He groaned.

Blinking away the muddy haze of unconsciousness, he struggled to sort through the knot in his stomach, the torturous fire consuming his shoulder, the dull ache that seemed to hold his head in its vice. He forced his eyes to open.

Right away, the sky spun overhead, a dizzying kaleidoscope of white and blue, so vast and unsettled, the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

Nauseated, he tried to rise but was immediately brought up short by pain so intense and forge-hot that his breath caught and he cried aloud. He crumbled back against the log, drawing deep, steadying breaths until the pain retreated to a more manageable level.

'_Bullet__wound_,' he thought dimly as the memory of how Biggs had shot him in the shoulder at close range began to resurface from the depths of his pain-racked mind.

Slowly, carefully, he turned his head a little and managed to crack an eyelid open enough to glance at his injury. Right away, his face contorted, the movement of damaged muscles provoking raw sensation in his shoulder.

Warm, slick blood was still seeping from beneath a once-white scrap of cloth that bound the injury and continued to saturate the coarse fabric of his shirt. He could feel a trickle of blood against his chest--a thin ribbon, nothing more, hot and slick as the sun-baked skin of a snake.

_Not good. Definitely not good, _he thought disheartened as his eyes drifted shut again against his will.

The warm sunlight filtered through the branches of the trees, speckling the ground around him with vibrant color. But despite the heat, Matt was shivering uncontrollably.

Dazed, he lay still for a long moment, breathing shallowly through his nose as he attempted to collect his muddled thoughts.

_Kitty...the Crandall-children...Biggs...Doc... _

_Doc. _

Matt tried to remember, thoughts moving through his mind like paste, each one slower than the next.

_What about Doc?_

The sudden memory hit him like a bolt of lighting.

_That fool of a doctor had placed his own life in danger by luring Biggs away from him. _

_Dammit. He couldn't allow this to happen._

Bracing himself on his good arm, he dug his heels into the ground. Using his legs for leverage, he pushed back against the log, at the same time twisting himself to get on his knees.

Immediately, the world reeled above his head again in a swirl of broken images, his vision see-sawing with each shuddering moment. Grinding his teeth together against the searing fire that flared in his shoulder, he stubbornly continued to push up. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his surroundings and he quickly realized he wasn't going to make it.

What little strength he had left spent, his right arm suddenly yielded beneath him and he crumbled to the ground, sweaty and trembling.

The sharpness of gravel and small stones grazed through the skin on his cheek, tearing into his flesh, but Matt barely noticed it. All he could focus on was the sudden shout that rose above the thicket, triumphant and ominous all at the same time.

It was followed seconds later by the sharp report of a rifle shot.

_x_

"THERE HE IS!"

Kiley pointed excitedly at the glimpse of a shadowed figure that was just ducking out of sight behind a dense cluster of trees about twenty yards up the slope.

Biggs spat and ran a grubby hand across his mouth.

"He's mine," he growled, shooting Kiley a sharp, warning glance.

The other rubbed his sweaty neck.

"Sure," he shrugged with a nonchalant lift of his shoulders, "like you said...he's yours."

He lowered his rifle and watched with glittering resentment bright in his eyes as Biggs brought the Marshal's Winchester round and raised it.

"Say your prayer, Dillon," he muttered as he pressed the rifle butt firmly against his shoulder.

Then he sighted along the barrel, took aim and squeezed the trigger.

Doc's mouth went abruptly dry. The short-cropped hairs on the back of his neck all stood up on end.

The next thing he knew, a sharp crack broke the surrounding silence, offering only a split second of warning before a bullet whined over his head and ripped into the tree a foot or so above his head.

The doctor dropped to his haunches even as chunks of bark splintered off the trunk, raining down onto his head. With a dull thunk, the slug embedded itself in the tree.

Doc rubbed a hand across his ashen face to wipe the gritty sweat away and found that his hand was shaking

His mind was operating on a different level now, racing ahead faster than his body could operate.

He had only one thought_. It was too soon...he had to keep moving for Matt's sake...he couldn't allow himself to be caught up with just yet._

Swallowing the dry knot that had formed inside his throat, his eyes searched around desperately and then darted up the slope. He gauged the distance to a clump of trees that clustered away a little to the left.

_How far was it? ten yards, maybe twelve? _

Gathering his courage, the doctor pushed away from the cottonwood and lurched forward.

He was within a few yards of it, when the sound of Biggs' rifle exploded behind him again.

_to be continued..._


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

_x_

Luke Crandall stopped suddenly, his attention drawn by a flash of metal below in the thicket. He quickly raised a hand to signal a warning to Chester who was following closely behind him.

The ex-Sheriff dropped down on his haunches behind a fallen log and Chester pressed himself against the nearest tree trunk. His attention sharpened, he cautiously peered around the side of it, barely daring to take a breath.

Below and to the right, no more than thirty, thirty-five yards away, he caught sight of a big, broad man standing amongst the tangled undergrowth. He had his rifle raised and ready before him and seemed hell-bent on taking someone out of the picture.

_Most likely Mister Dillon or Doc_, Chester decided grimly.

The two others, flanking the shooter, were armed as well but didn't make any attempts at using their weapons--at least not yet.

Chester glanced over at Luke who was sitting back on his haunches a few feet away. Physically, the older man scarcely moved. Just a slight tensing of the muscles, an infinite small straightening of the back, a tiny lift of his head betrayed his intense attention to the scene below.

"See that big fella down there in the middle?" Chester said with a nod in Biggs' direction, "that's Dan Biggs."

Luke gave a slight nod.

"Figured as much."

The two men stared down the hill for a few long seconds, but Biggs didn't make a move. He stood frozen in position as if waiting for something to happen.

Then suddenly, a shadowy figure darted out from behind a clump of trees, climbed a few feet through the undergrowth and then disappeared behind some bushes.

Immediately, Biggs fired again. The bullet tore into one of the trees where the man had disappeared a few short seconds ago, splintering off chunks of bark and wood.

"My gracious," Chester suddenly realized as he turned several shades whiter, "that must be Mister Dillon down there--"

Steadying himself against the trunk, he quickly brought up his rifle and sighted along the barrel.

Below, he could see the figure pop up again from behind the sheltering cluster of cottonwoods and scramble up the sloping ground. This time, the man's black hat and white shirt were plainly visible.

Chester's rifle dipped, losing his bead on Biggs.

"Oh, my goodness, that ain't Mister Dillon at all--it's Doc," he whispered in horrified recognition.

Then everything seemed to happen all at once.

Before the doctor had a chance to cover even half the distance to the safety of the next collection of trees, another shot exploded from Biggs' rifle.

Its echo rolled loudly in the woods, and a fraction of a second later, Doc Adams dropped out of sight as the greenery closed over him.

A triumphant whoop from the shooter roused Chester from his stunned stupor. Even from the distance, he could see the savage grin that pulled Biggs' lips tightly against his teeth.

"NO!"

His face tightening with cold anger, Chester ripped his Winchester up, braced the butt end against his shoulder and squeezed the trigger.

The hastily pulled off shot missed Biggs by several feet, doing little more than alert the outlaws to his and Luke's presence.

_x_

Kiley was the first one to react.

Wild-eyed, he spun around, jerking his own rifle up, but before he could take aim, a load from Luke Crandall's big .58 stopped him short.

The gun exploded like a small cannon, its powerful blast knocking the outlaw back several paces as it hit him squarely in the chest. Kiley was dead before he hit the ground.

Biggs and Stanton quickly regained their composure; bringing their own guns up, the two men began to fire blindly, volley after volley into the distant thicket of trees above as they retreated. Seconds later, they had dropped safely behind a pile of half rotted timber and deadfall as they kept the bullets coming.

A ricochet bounced from a tree, almost taking Luke's ear off. He scowled but was determined not to waste ammunition on a target he couldn't see. The ex-Sheriff was a methodical man given to planned and organized action. Shooting recklessly into a pile of rotten wood did little to better their position. He would rather outwit than outgun, but saw that Chester apparently had no such qualms.

Without even bothering to get a good bead on his opponents, the young man alternated between jacking a round into the chamber of his Winchester and squeezing the trigger as fast as he could until the last bullet was spent.

The answer came immediately in the form of a fresh hail of bullets as the two remaining outlaws returned fire. They were desperate men and their aim was a lot more accurate than Chester's, forcing him and the ex-lawman to keep their heads well down.

For a moment, something akin to panic flared in Chester's eyes and Luke could tell that all color had drained from his face.

"Oh, what're we gonna do?" fretted Chester as he reloaded his rifle with shaking fingers, "I gotta get down there, Luke--my goodness, that fella shot Doc!"

Luke thought Chester looked about ready to blow all caution to the wind and storm down the incline shooting and yelling. He knew pig-headed determination when he saw it and intended to put a stop to it before the young man got himself shot.

"You saw Doc Adams drop but that doesn't necessarily mean he's been shot," he inserted mildly.

But the ex-Sheriff's words, though well meant, did little to calm Chester.

"Well, you think what you want, I'm goin' down there!" he insisted grimly determined.

Awkwardly, he scrambled to his feet, only to drop back down just as quickly as another bullet struck a small tree a few feet from him, sending chunks of pulp and bark flying everywhere.

Luke scowled and drew a deep breath. He had hoped on flushing the two outlaws out by widening the angle of their return fire, but for that, he needed Chester's cooperation.

"All right," he relented, seeing a way to possibly combine the both, "you try circlin' around this way...see if you can't get a good bead on that fella on the right there...I'll keep you covered from up here."

Chester gave a clipped nod, finding the idea more to his liking. Keeping low, he began to scurry along as Luke opened fire. Unhurried and calm, the ex-lawman sent shot after well-aimed shot into the pile of rotted timber below, forcing the men to remain in cover while Chester slipped undetected around to the side of them.

He was within about ten yards of their hiding place when he spotted Stanton. The outlaw was on his haunches, slipping cartridges in the chambers of his colt while Biggs was crouching a few feet to the left of him, firing irregular shots into Luke's direction. His rifle apparently empty, he was now making use of his colt.

It was Chester's chance. He swung his Winchester up.

"Drop your guns, we got you covered!"

In a flash, Biggs swung around and fired.

The roar of his colt almost coincided with the explosion-like bellow of Luke's rifle.

It was over within a few seconds.

_x_

Biggs' bullet whizzed harmlessly past Chester's shoulder and he watched with fascinated horror as the powerful impact of Luke's slug lifted the outlaw clear off the ground, slamming him backward several feet. A ham-sized hand opened and the colt fell from suddenly gone limp fingers, landing on the leaf-strewn ground with a soft thud as Dan Biggs crumbled.

Seeing his boss drop seemed to make up Stanton's mind.

"Don't shoot!" he yelled anxiously as he jerked his hands chest high. Buff-colored eyes widened with fear in his hollow-cheeked face at the prospect of being struck down, too by this horrible weapon.

Chester emerged from behind his cover, his rifle trained squarely on the lanky outlaw's chest.

Though pale and a little shaken, his voice was firm as he spoke.

"All right, drop that gun, mister," he growled. Dry leaves and twigs crunched beneath is boots as he took a few rocking steps towards Stanton.

The outlaw obliged eagerly, letting the colt slip from his raised hand. It fell to the ground where it disappeared in the tangled undergrowth.

From above, Chester heard the snapping and cracking of brush as Luke rushed down the slope. About halfway down, the ex-Sheriff suddenly stopped; it was the very spot where they had seen the doctor disappear earlier.

Chester's heart was hammering a staccato against the inside of his ribcage as he watched anxiously for any sign of Doc.

Suddenly, a familiar head popped up amidst the bushes, followed seconds later by the rest of the doctor's body.

"He's all right!" shouted Luke, waving his rifle over his head.

Chester let out a heartfelt sigh of relief. His Winchester remained leveled on Stanton, but his eyes kept tracking back to the two men as they finished the rest of the way down the incline together.

"My goodness, Doc, am I sure glad to see you," sputtered Chester immediately when the doctor walked up to him moments later, "you all right there?"

He swept the physician with his concerned gaze. A little the worse for wear, he decided upon seeing the bloody scrapes on his face and the disheveled state of the rest of him, but otherwise unharmed. "Ya know, you sure gave us a fright. For a moment there I thought you was--"

But Doc didn't give him a chance to finish, his well-being the last thing on his mind right now.

"Well, never you mind about me," he waved him off impatiently, "it's Matt--by golly, Chester--he's hurt bad!"

Chester stared at him stricken.

"Oh my gracious--where's he at?" He began to look around wildly, suddenly realizing he hadn't even seen the Marshal at all.

"Mister Dil-lon?" he shouted anxiously, "Mister Dil-lon?"

"For Heaven's sakes, he's not here," snapped Doc, irritably, "come on, we've got no time to waste!"

He snagged Chester by the sleeve and tugged.

Luke, who had already been filled in by the physician on the way down, nodded.

"You go on ahead," he said, "don't worry, I'll take care of this fella here."

Chester spared a quick glance at what was left of Doc's pursuers. Kiley lay on his back, spread-eagled on the ground. His empty eyes were staring sightless up at the canopy of green above. There was a hole the size of a man's fist in the front of his shirt that was still seeping dark red blood. Its sickening, coppery scent hung heavy in the air. Biggs was sprawled face-down on a bed of dried leaves and tangled deadfall, his injury not visible from the way he was lying.

Chester's lifted his eyes.

"Thanks, Luke, I gotta--gotta go an' help Doc," he stammered, the words sticking to his tongue in his haste to dispel them. "I mean--we gotta get Mister Dillon--he's hurt real bad an'--"

His face creased into lines of considerable concern and impatience, Doc snatched the young man by the shirt sleeve again and yanked, this time hard enough to almost topple Chester from his feet.

"For heaven's sakes, come on!" he urged.

"I'll give you a hand as soon as I lock this one up," Luke called after the two, watching as they quickly disappeared amidst the trees.

_x_

The front door flew open with a sharp bang and Doc hurried across the room to push open the door to the Crandall's bedroom.

Small and rectangular, the room housed a simple cast-iron bedstead, a chest of drawers, bedside table and vanity. An old beat-up chair was pulled close to the bed, and two small windows permitted access to a cooling breeze.

"Here, Chester...take him in there," he instructed, nodding towards the bed.

Together, Luke and Chester half-carried, half-supported the Marshal into the room. As carefully as they could, they deposited their semi-conscious burden on the bed while Doc began to spread out the contents of his medical bag on top of the chest of drawers. He realized quickly that he didn't have half the things he needed. It didn't matter, he decided, he would just have to make due with what he had. This was a matter of life or death and the bullet had to come out now--he couldn't afford to wait any longer.

Though his emotions were running high, he spoke calmly, with business-like efficiency as he began to dispense orders.

"Chester, I'll need plenty of hot water. Luke, I'll need towels, sheets cut up for bandages, anything alcoholic you might have."

Luke looked thoughtful.

"I got some whiskey, Doc."

Doc nodded curtly.

"That'll do, just bring it here."

The two men dashed from the room to gather the requested items while the doctor turned his attention to the tall man that lay sprawled on the bed. The sight filled him with dread.

Matt was in agony.

Dirt, sweat and blood were all smeared together on his face. He was breathing hard and fast, using only the top part of his chest.

Doc leaned over him and pushed back the heavy, sweat-soaked fringe of hair to press the back of his fingers to his friend's forehead. Though he was warm and sweaty, there was no indication of fever--not yet anyway.

Determined, he cuffed back his sleeves and began to remove the make-shift bandage. What he found beneath, caused his expression to grow even more troubled.

The dried blood had made the shirt stiff, causing the coarse fabric to cling firmly to chest hair and skin. Threads from the torn shirt were pressed into the wound, along with bits of dirt and grass.

The doctor's brows drew together in a concerned frown, realizing that the infection could be more dangerous than the blood loss the lawman had suffered.

Working carefully, he undid the buttons of Matt's shirt down to the waist and gently parted the garment. Reluctant to pull on it any more, he reached for one of the cut-up towels Luke had brought and soaked it in the basin of warm water Chester had set down onto the small bedside table. Gently pinching out the excess, he turned back to the Marshal.

"Matt, I'm gonna put this here on your shoulder," he said, "that shirt's clotted pretty good to the wound...we gotta try and get it off."

The words slowly ingrained his subconscious, dragging him back to the painful realm of coherency. Matt opened his eyes but found it difficult to think, hard to concentrate on anything but the searing pain that was pulsing through his shoulder and back. His head was spinning; a sound like rushing water creating a tumult in his ears and it took him a moment to make sense of what Doc was saying. He swallowed and gave a slight nod.

Chester and Luke were hovering at the foot of the bed, watching anxiously as the doctor placed the wet cloth onto the lawman's shoulder.

Right away, Matt gasped, his body visibly tensing.

The heat re-awakened raw sensation in the wound. He flinched from the touch, tried to jerk away, but Doc continued to apply gentle pressure, holding it in place.

"Easy, Matt easy," he said, his voice low and soothing as he removed the cloth, replacing it with a fresh one. While it was soaking, he reached down to unbuckle the Marshal's belt. He eased the leather strap free and then proceeded to carefully tug the tail of his shirt from his pants.

As he checked on the compress again, he found that the fabric had loosened enough by now for him to work it from the wound. He slid one hand beneath the open shirt, using the back of his fingers to gently pry the coarse material from the skin while the other hand assisted from above.

Matt sucked in a sharp breath, his lips peeled back from his teeth against the throbbing agony the doctor's action provoked.

Working carefully, Doc didn't stop until he had the shirt completely separated from the skin. Now it had to come off.

"I'm sorry, Matt," the doctor said, "but I need you to sit up here for me."

He motioned Chester and Luke to join him and give him a hand.

Chester moved hesitantly. He glanced apprehensively from the Marshal to the doctor and then to Luke who each had already slipped one arm behind Matt's back.

"See if you can get his shirt off, Chester, " said Doc and then turned to the lawman again. "Ready, Matt?"

The Marshal gave a clipped nod.

Doc motioned Luke and slowly, the two men guided him forward to a sitting position.

Right away, Matt's breath caught and he bit his lip in mute desperation while Chester, as gently as possible, began to ease the lawman's right arm free from the shirt. Pushing the garment off his shoulder, he let it slide across the Marshal's back and then carefully pulled it down his left arm and all the way off.

Doc and Luke eased Matt back down onto the pillow and immediately, the doctor set to cleaning the wound.

Chester peered over his shoulder, watching the doctor work.

"Anythin' else you want me to do, Doc?" he asked.

The physician lifted his head, indicating the bowl on the bedside table.

"Go an' see if that water's boilin' yet, Chester...I'll need more here pretty soon."

Luke glanced at the doctor from across the bed.

"Can I do anythin' to help?"

Doc soaked one of the compresses, wrung it out and then gently dabbed it against the wound again to mop up the flow of fresh blood.

"Just--you just stay around...I'm gonna need you to give me a hand here in a little bit."

Though the wound was now clean, the immediate area around it was red and swollen. Doc knew that even with the aid of the laudanum it would be extremely painful for Matt when he tried to remove the bullet. He would need the help of both, Luke and Chester to restrain the tall man.

"Doc?"

"Yeah, what is it, Matt?" The doctor rested a gentle hand on his friend's chest, glancing down into pain-glazed, blue eyes.

Matt tried focusing his gaze, straining weakly to get the words out.

"Do...what...you...have to...do--"

The sliver of fear in the lawman's eyes was clearly visible despite his obvious effort to mask it. Doc nodded, hoping that his own nervousness didn't convey as he spoke.

"That's what I intend to do, old boy. Now you just go on an' lie back there an' let me take care of the rest...ev'rything's gonna be all right."

It was a promise that came easily to the doctor's lips--the need to comfort was strong. He prayed that he would be able to keep his word.

Matt's nodded. There was nothing pleasant about having a bullet carved from your flesh. He had experienced the agonizing surgery enough times to know firsthand. His eyes drifted shut again but his mind clung to Doc's voice--to the assurance and familiarity that had seen him through a good many injuries over the last four years.

"Here, Doc, I got you the hot water, like you said," said Chester as he carefully carried the bowl with the steaming hot water around the bedstead where he deposited it on the bedside table.

The doctor straightened and drew a hand over his face.

He murmured a vague, "Thanks, Chester," and then began to roll his sleeves above his elbows. Using some of Luke's whiskey, he vigorously began to scrub his hands and forearms with it.

When he was finished, he turned to his friend again.

"Now Matt...I ain't gonna lie to you--this is gonna hurt...probably quite a bit. I need for you to lie as still as possible so I can get that bullet out..."

Matt swallowed and drew an uneven breath.

"I...know...it's-it's...all right, Doc."

Doc's hand folded briefly over the Marshal's much bigger one and for a second, his fingers tightened around it. Whether the touch was meant to reassure himself or Matt, he now longer knew.

Letting go, he drew a deep, steadying breath and then straightened.

"Luke," he now addressed the ex-lawman, "see if you can get his boots off, an' then I want you to hold his legs."

Obliging, the former Sheriff moved to the foot of the bed and began to carefully tug free the Marshal's boots. Placing them beside the bedstead, he then sat down on the edge of the mattress and gripped the lawman's legs just below the knees.

Satisfied, Doc nodded and then turned to Chester.

"Chester. You take his arms. Make sure you hold on good. Don't let him thrash around."

Considerably paler now, the young man moved hesitantly to the other side of the bed.

"I'm sorry Mister Dillon," he stammered as he glanced down into the Marshal's pain-contorted face, "I'm just as sorry as I can be, but Doc says, we gotta keep you from movin'."

"Move his hands there," Doc instructed him when he sensed Chester's obvious reluctance, "just--just move his hands. Try keepin' them at his sides."

Chester swallowed, nodding nervously. Stooping down, he grasped the Marshal's big hands around the wrists and moved them to either side of his body, silently wondering if he would be able to hold them there once the doctor started to cut.

Doc picked up the scalpel.

With one final glance into his friend's tense face, he braced his forearm across Matt's chest for leverage. Immediately, he felt him stiffen. Heat flamed against his fingertips from the inflamed skin, a grim witness to the infection that had already set in. His hand positioned the little knife against the entry wound and with one swift motion--he cut into it.

Pain flared in his shoulder, so intense and sudden, Matt couldn't help but cry aloud.

He threw his head back against the pillow, his body arching upwards from the bed as if trying to free itself of the torment.

For one long, seemingly never-ending moment, there was nothing but the blind agony of molten fire consuming him. Sweat broke from every pore as his fingers dug into the sheets, stretching the scraped skin taut over his knuckles until it turned white.

Despite his weakened state, there was surprising strength in the movement, and Chester found himself struggling to hold him down.

Right away, Doc stopped. Glancing over Matt's chest, he met Chester's panicky gaze.

"For Heaven's sakes, Chester," he hissed, "hold him still!"

Chester pressed his lips together and nodded. Snagging the Marshal's wrists tighter, held on firmly.

"Please, Mister Dillon," he pleaded anxiously, "you gotta hold still so's Doc can get that bullet out--"

Matt hitched his breath, choking back a tortured gasp as Doc started cutting again, working the knife deeper through inflamed flesh and tissue.

The incredible pain seared his nerves and stole his breath. He jerked again, straining desperately against the hands restraining him. Blood oozed from the wound and over the physician's fingers, trailing down the planes of Matt's chest in thin ribbons, trickling down his side where it soaked into the sheets.

Chester chanced a cautious glance at the ugly wound and blanched immediately at the sight of it. He quickly averted his eyes again.

"Hold still there, Matt," admonished him Doc gently, but the glazed look in the lawman's eyes told him that he was only half coherent.

The knife slipped deeper and the doctor could feel tissue closing over it, inhibiting its path. Withdrawing the scalpel from the opening, he moved to press a towel firmly over the wound to absorb some of the fresh blood flowing up from the healthy sinews he had revealed.

Beneath him, Matt lay panting with the intensity of the pain. Doc drew a deep breath and wiped a wrist across his brow to remove the accumulated beads of sweat.

_So far, so good_, he thought.

He removed the gory towel and reached for a pair of long, thin bullet tongs. Sliding them into the wound, he carefully began to probe deeper.

Right away, Matt jerked again, groaning deep in his throat. He shifted, trying to ease the torment, but the movement only sent more waves of agony waffling down his back and chest.

Doc's hand stilled.

"Chester! Luke! Doggone it, keep him still for me!"

His face pale and glistening with cold sweat, Chester tried his best to keep the Marshal's arms pinned down at his sides. He could feel the quivering of muscle in the lawman's arms; the corded tension strung like wire through his large and powerful frame. The smell of blood was in Chester's nose, the scent making him sick to his stomach and he desperately tried not to watch the doctor's hand as it buried the forceps even deeper in the lawman's flesh.

Doc kept digging.

He could sense the bullet more than feel it. He knew he was almost there.

Matt cried out again, tossing his head from side to side in protest of the doctor's painful probing. His body was slick with sweat. It trickled down his neck, pooling in the hollow of his throat. It beaded on the muscular planes of his chest where it clung to the sparse scattering of chest hair, it left glistening trails across his stomach.

But the doctor didn't stop--he couldn't afford to. He felt sick inside, Matt's tortured cries cutting him to the bone and it took everything he had to ignore them.

Biting his lip, he carefully probed deeper, felt the forceps slip past bone.

_There was nothing he could do to ease Matt's pain, but he'd be damned if he'd let him die._

"Hold on, my friend, it's almost over," he whispered encouragement and pushed the forceps just a little further.

In the pain-laced fog of his mind, the meaning of Doc's words got lost on Matt. He was beyond all sensibility. He couldn't see, couldn't think, couldn't hear. There was only pain so ruthless, it sent tremors racing through his arms, his back, his chest. He wanted it to stop, but couldn't form the words to ask. His teeth clenched, he gathered what little strength he could muster to make one more desperate attempt at wrenching free.

Chester, having sensed it coming, automatically tightened his grasp.

"Oh, please, Mister Dillon," he begged desperately, a distinct touch of panic in his voice now, "please try to hold still--"

The futile struggle lasted a mere seconds and suddenly, somewhere amidst the fearful agony, his body forgot to breathe. The strangled moan died on his lips as Matt ran out of breath. The black edges of his vision suddenly closed in around him as awareness mercifully slipped away.

Alarmed, Chester lifted his gaze when he felt the lawman's muscles loosen beneath his hands.

"Doc?!"

But the doctor, already having anticipated it, remained focused on his task.

For a while, there was no sound but the clicking of the forceps going in and out of the dish of water and the heavy breathing of one unconscious man, one absorbed physician and two tense spectators.

Suddenly, tissue gave way beneath the tip of the forceps and Doc felt the bullet scrape against the edge of the intruding metal.

He gently pushed until the tongs closed around the slug. Ever so slow, he carefully slid the blood-slicked forceps from the wound, withdrawing the small, jagged hunk of metal.

"You got it!"

Chester's words mirrored Doc's relief.

With shaking fingers, the doctor dropped both, slug and forceps into the small metal tray on the bedside table.

"There, Matt, it's out," he muttered relieved as he began to flush blood away from the sight and set a clean towel against it to absorb the fluids.

But Matt didn't hear the doctor's reassuring words. His body lay limp, his breathing, though still somewhat ragged, had evened mostly to a steady rhythm. There was a crease of pain on his sweat-laced forehead, his brows drawn together even in unconsciousness as he battled discomfort.

Chester moved his eyes anxiously back and forth between the Marshal and the physician.

"Is he all right, Doc? I mean--"

The doctor flicked a brief glance at Matt's face, peeled back an eyelid and then reached for his wrist to check his pulse.

"He's just passed out, Chester...smartest thing he could've done," he said, sincerely thankful that the lawman had finally lost consciousness. Cleaning and sewing up the incision was going to be just as uncomfortable, especially since the flesh was already extremely tender from the infection.

"Doc?"

At Luke's query, the doctor raised his eyes.

"If you don't need me here anymore, I reckon I better take care of those bodies before the animals beat me to them."

Doc nodded, tugging at his hear. "Well, you go on right ahead an' do that, there's not much more for you to do around here right now."

Chester turned to the ex-lawman before he had a chance to disappear. "You want me come along, Luke?"

The other shook his head. "No, you just stick around here an' give Doc a hand...I'll manage."

His retreating footsteps were followed by the soft creak of the front door as he stepped out onto the porch.

Doc indicated the water bowl on the bedside table. The once clear liquid was now tinged a deep crimson hue.

"Go an' fetch me some fresh water, Chester," he said, "make sure there's plenty on the stove, we'll need a steady supply of it."

Chester nodded.

"Yes, Doc," he said as he went to collect the bowl with its reddened contents and quietly slipped from the room.

Without further ado, the doctor set to cleaning the wound, using a diluted mixture of whiskey and water. Blood was still flowing from the deep cut although not as heavy anymore.

Gathering the needle and sutures from the bedside table, he set to the task of stitching up the wound.

Doc was just finishing up when Chester returned a short while later.

The young man inched closer, hovering anxiously at the doctor's shoulder.

"How is he now, Doc?"

Doc straightened and pinched the bridge of his nose; it was a brief submission to weariness that he would not usually confess to.

"I can't tell you, Chester," he began, taking time to consider how best to put complex medical matters into terms that the jailer would understand, "it's a little too early to say. There's been some infection and he's probably gonna start runnin' a fever. I done all I can for him--it's outta my hands now."

His eyes tracked back to Matt.

The warm sunlight fell across his motionless body, his sweat-sheened skin as white as the pillow he lay against. Unconsciousness had stolen away most traces of pain. He lay still, with barely a rise of his chest to show that he lived at all.

Drained and exhausted, the doctor settled heavily into the chair beside the bed and said a silent prayer.

_He had done all he could. He only hoped it was enough. _

_x_

Something wasn't right. He could sense it. The easing of the tension he should have felt, still wasn't there.

His intuition was something Luke Crandall had learned to trust and rely upon heavily in his twenty years as a lawman. More than once had it saved his life, seldom had it stirred him wrong.

The shod hooves of Biggs' big roan clicked against the small rocks and stones embedded in the dirt road as the ex-Sheriff led him up the trail to claim the bodies of Biggs and Kiley. He would have rather used a wagon, but as it was, his buckboard was still in Dodge.

About midway up the trail, he paused to orient himself.

Above, the sun had almost completed its arc across the sky and was quickly sinking into the cradle of the hills in the west. The onset of evening made the warm air feel unpleasantly sticky and laden with humidity. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, using it to mop the sweat from the back of his neck.

"Well, come on, jug-head," he muttered to the roan as he led him of the trail and into the shadowy denseness of the thicket, "we got a job to do--an' it ain't a very pleasant one."

Luke had no trouble finding the place where the deadly altercation had taken place earlier.

As he was drawing closer, the horse's head suddenly came up and he snorted. He began to balk and fight the bit, refusing point blank to go any further. Luke tugged on the lead rein. The roan rolled his eyes and flicked back his ears. His nostrils flared. He threw up his head and whinnied his fear.

With a sigh, the ex-Sheriff shortened the rein and stepped up to the animal as he recognized the source of its terror. The revolting stench of blood and death was hanging heavy in the moisture-laden air, making his own stomach lurch.

Speaking soothingly, Luke was able to calm the frightened animal enough to lead him a little closer and tie him to a bush. How he was going to manage to load the bodies onto his back, he didn't know.

His intent gaze wandered over to the spot where they had left the bodies of the fallen outlaws earlier.

_There it was a again; the strange prickling sensation at the base of his neck. No, something definitely wasn't right, he was sure of that now._

He licked his lips in unconscious admission of nervousness. His step became more cautious as he drew nearer, leaves and twigs softly crunching beneath his heel.

In the waning light of the dusk he saw the spread-eagled body of Kiley materialize a few feet in front of him. A dark, shadowed lump on the ground, nothing more.

His eyes sought out the other man and Luke's heart gave a slight jolt.

It didn't take much light to confirm the obvious.

The spot where Dan Biggs' body had lain was now--_empty._

_to be continued..._


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

_x_

Bowing his face into his hands, Doc raked tired fingers back through his unruly, graying hair as he reflected on the events of the previous day. It had taken him and Chester the better part of an hour to drag the injured lawman down to the Crandall's house. Weakened by the blood loss and the pain, he had slipped in and out of consciousness and they had to stop numerous times, trying to rouse him before they could go on. Luckily, Luke Crandall had come to their aid after securing the surviving outlaw in the barn, and together they had managed to get Matt into the house.

Without wasting any time, he had immediately set to the task of removing the bullet. Taking it out had been risky, but leaving it in would have meant almost certain death. The surgery had went well, considering the great amount of blood Matt had lost, but now he had to worry about the infection and the fever.

To make matters worse, it had turned out that Dan Biggs apparently wasn't dead after all. When Luke had gone to bring the bodies of the two outlaws back to the farm yesterday evening, he had only found Kiley--no trace of Biggs. After getting Chester, the two men had immediately set out to search for the missing outlaw. One hour had run into the next without much success and sometime well past midnight, they had finally decided to put the search off until daybreak.

With a grunt, Doc leaned back in the chair he'd drawn to Matt's bedside to rub the bridge of his nose. As a doctor, he was used to all-nighters, but it was obvious that the events of the last couple of days had taken their toll on him, too. His tired gaze shifted to the lawman. Though Matt had slept sedated for most of the night, the doctor had found his own rest limited. Dozing fitfully in the chair, he had risen numerous times to check on his friend, worried about the fever that had set in sometime during the night.

Stiffly, Doc climbed to his feet, fleetingly reflecting that he was really getting too old to sleep in chairs.

He shuffled over to the window and pulled aside the curtains. Ignoring the shadowy reflection of himself gazing back at him, he stared out at the inky blackness and said a silent prayer.

A low groan suddenly carried over to him from the bedstead.

Doc raised a weary hand to scrub it across his mustache. The laudanum was beginning to wear off. Matt was a big man, requiring a much larger dose of the opium-derived drug than most people did. Having had only a limited supply on him, he had been dispensing the smallest amount possible, wanting to stretch it out for as long as he could.

Allowing the curtain to fall back into place, he turned and made his way back over to the bed, the scraping of his shoes against the floor planks overly loud in the otherwise silent room.

The oil lamp on the bedside table was burning low, its warm, orange glow creating a soft pattern of wavering shadows on the wall behind the headboard.

The bedsprings creaked softly as he propped a hip on the edge of the mattress to sit down beside Matt's shoulder. Folding his fingers into his palm, Doc gently laid his knuckles against the Marshal's sweat-beaded cheek, frowning at what he felt--his friend was burning up with fever.

He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small black case. With care, he removed the flimsy, wire-rimmed spectacles, putting them on.

"Well, let's see what we got here, Matt," he muttered softly as he began to gently peel away the thin sheet from Matt's chest and then proceeded to remove the thick wadding of bandages he'd applied to the wound.

Almost immediately, a worried frown creased his brow.

The bandages had come away stiff and encrusted and beneath, the skin was a deep angry red, the edges of the wound a ghastly purple. The incision he had made in order to extract the bullet was puckered around the stitches, secreting small dollops of puss. He could feel the heat caged inside the shoulder, the molten intensity witness to the infection that was spreading with distressing alacrity.

Turning the wick of the oil lamp higher so that the shadows leapt towards the low, wooden ceiling, Doc began the battle for his friend's life.

For the next three hours, he continued to ceaselessly sponge the Marshal's body and apply cooling rags to his chest, arms and stomach in hopes of drawing the fever out. But despite his tireless efforts, Matt's temperature climbed steadily, his sleep growing more restless by the moment.

_x_

Outside, the sun was inching higher into the sky, slanting shafts of early morning light through the dusty quarter panes of the Crandall's bedroom window. A soft breeze was gently playing with the lace curtains and a bird sang in the big cottonwood outside, but Doc took no notice of it.

Still perched on the edge of the bed, he was leaning over Matt, absorbed in the continuous task of changing the cooling rags.

The oil lamp, though having become obsolete now, was still burning on the bedside table, its light insignificant and weak compared to the brightness of the morning sun.

From the main room, the soft creaking of the front door as it was opened drifted to his ear. The slightly uneven strike of booted feet against the smooth plank floor followed. Moments later, Chester appeared in the doorway, bringing with him the strong, heady scent of recently cut hay.

"Mornin, Doc," he said as he gingerly stretched a body that was sore from spending the pitiful remainder of his night sleeping in the barn. "How's Mister Dillon...he any better?"

Slipping into the room, he stopped on the opposite side of the bed and hopefully peered at the Marshal's pillow.

If Doc heard him, he gave no indication.

"Chester, go an' mix me some of that powder there in a glass of water," he instructed softly with a nod at a small package on the bedside table instead. He ducked his head, not wanting Chester to see the naked concern in his eyes as he continued to bathe Matt's inflamed shoulder with cool water.

Chester regarded him curiously, trying to decide whether Doc had simply not heard him or had some other reason for not answering.

"Yes, sir," he muttered at last, figuring it better to carry out Doc's bidding first before asking him again.

A short moment later, he returned with the requested glass. As he handed the vessel across the bed, his eyes fell on the Marshal's shoulder. He swallowed hard at the sight of the badly infected wound and then raised his concerned eyes to look into the doctor's face.

His voice sounded extremely uneasy.

"Ya know, Doc, that sure don't look too good if you ask me. You think he's gonna be all right?"

Doc set the cloth aside and slowly brushed a hand over his scruffy chin and mustache. His eyes flickered away before darting back up to Chester's worried face. He pressed his lips together, unwilling to concede doubt but uncertainty marred his features when he spoke.

"He's gonna be all right if we can get that infection under control an' keep his fever down."

He didn't speak the thought that was running through the back of his mind--'_if not, he might die'._

Chester felt momentary relief at the physician's assurance, but his doubts quickly returned as the Marshal suddenly began to shift and groan feebly.

"I know you're doin' the best you can, Doc, but...I mean...ain't there anythin' else you can--"

Like a rattler striking out at his prey, the doctor's head whipped up as he dropped the rag into the water dish with a little more force than necessary.

"Doggone it, Chester!" he snapped, skewering the younger man with a glance, and for a moment, he looked as if he would bite off an angry retort. Then, as quickly as the anger had entered his eyes, it shriveled beneath the hand of reason.

His shoulders sagged and his eyes slid to Matt again, studying the feverish, sweat-beaded features of his friend. He wished there was something more he could do, something better.

"I'm doin' ev'rything I can for him," he muttered quietly, the sharp edge that had accompanied his previous comments now missing altogether.

_x_

_Matt felt himself falling. He heard the thundering report as Biggs' colt discharged, answering shocks of pain exploding through his body, robbing him of speech and thought. He screamed out until it seemed his own ears would burst, his cry mingling with Biggs' laughter as he fell, and fell, and fell..._

With a pained gasp, he suddenly jerked as his mind floated up through the haze of his fever and drug-induced dreams. There was a terrible hot weight on his chest, as if someone had rolled a huge boulder onto it, and now he couldn't breathe. He shifted a little, trying to push it off, or thought he did, but to make matters worse, his left arm seemed to be trapped against his chest and his body felt unaccountably heavy.

_This wasn't right..._

He moved again, trying to lift his head, but try as he might, he couldn't seem to remember which way was up and which was down, and his eyes seemed to be sewn tight shut so that he couldn't open them and see. Disoriented, Matt felt his heartbeat quicken and for one terrifying moment, he had no sense of time or place. He tried to make his tongue move, but the words stuck like stubborn paste.

"Easy there, Matt, it's all right," a voice that sounded vaguely familiar now said.

_All right? How could he be all right with all that weight pressing down on him? He had to get it off..._

Twisting fitfully, he succeeded in throwing off the bedcovers as he fought to push aside the boulder. His feeble attempt was immediately brought up short by a hand on his chest, pressing him gently back down against the mattress.

"I said take it easy, Matt," soothed Doc, "it's all right--now just take it easy there, it's all over, you're safe."

_It was over? He was safe?_

The words slowly penetrated his confused mind, pushing aside some of the disorienting mire of returning consciousness. He groaned--senses still blurred by a laudanum haze, not quite sufficient to mute the agonizing pain in his shoulder and back. But the words had tickled something in his brain as he settled back against the pillows, panting, trying not to move anymore. Breathing in short, shallow gasps to keep the pain at bay, he tried to make sense of what he'd just heard.

_Safe from what? _

Unbidden images suddenly began to flash in his mind, so quickly that he struggled to make sense of them all.

_Biggs shooting him...he and Doc hiding out in the grove...the outlaws pursuing them...Dan Biggs, Dan Biggs, Dan Biggs_. It became almost a litany as the name whirled around in his mind, around and around.

His voice crackled with sudden urgency as the foggy memories sharpened his fevered mind.

"Biggs--" he whispered, struggling again against the physician's restraining hand. "Biggs...I...gotta...get--"

Doc handed the glass back to Chester. Bracing an arm across the lawman's sweat-slicked chest, he gently forced him back down against the mattress.

"Come on, Matt, do as I say an' lie still, you're not well enough to get up. I just cut a bullet outta you and you got a pretty bad fever."

Chester stepped closer, nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

"Mister Dillon, ev'rything's all right...you just rest easy, don't you worry a thing, we got ev'rything taken care of."

His eyes strayed to the bloody bandage that had slipped from the lawman's shoulder. The mere sight of it made him cringe.

"Please, Mister Dillon, you gotta listen to Doc here," he pleaded again, "he's just tryin' to help you--"

It took a moment for the words to finally sink in. The tension in his limbs slackened and Matt sank back against the bed with a grunt that quickly became a moan as he felt the sharp ache that thrummed through his shoulder and back. The pain, as unwelcome as it was, at least cleared his mind some. His eyelids flickered, and he managed to open them part way, trying to focus on the comfortingly familiar figure hovering over him.

"Doc," he rasped weakly.

The doctor's arm eased its pressure. He smiled a faint smile, the slight curve of his lips beneath the salt and pepper mustache affectionate indulgence from a man that had come to view the Marshal as something akin to a son.

"Matt." He offered with a reassuring nod.

Matt let his increasingly heavy eyelids sink. He felt dizzy and pain pounded in a steady thump behind his sweaty forehead, seeking to compete with the agonizing throb in his shoulder.

Doc sat down on the bed beside him. Slipping one hand behind the Marshal's head to support him, he took the glass of medicated water from Chester and tipped it to his friend's lips.

"Here...I want you to raise up and drink this, it'll make you feel better," he said before Matt could get it into his mind to ask him any questions that he'd rather not answer at the moment--especially any question's regarding Dan Biggs.

To weak to object, Matt dragged himself from the descending haze and drank obediently, letting the slightly bitter-tasting liquid trickle down his throat.

When he had finished, the doctor set the glass aside and carefully eased him back against the pillow before turning his attention to the shoulder wound.

"Well, let's take a look here now," he muttered as he began to carefully remove the bundled cloth that had shifted with the Marshal's movement while Chester watched concerned from across the bed.

A fresh trickle of blood was seeping from beneath the stained compress, indicating that the wound had broken open again.

Doc gave a grunt of disapproval.

"Chester, go an' hand me one of those rags over there," he said nodding at a small stack of cut-up towels sitting on the chest of drawers.

Quickly obliging, the young man turned one of the rags over, and Doc began to gently dab up the blood before re-dressing the sight.

He remained sitting on the edge of the bed when he was done, his hand lingering on Matt's chest as his eyes fixed on his friend's face. A bruise, dark and spreading, covered his right cheekbone, encircling a small, blood-encrusted gash. Two smaller bruises were evident along his jaw line and a scab was forming on his forehead where the skin had been scraped. It was the first time the doctor had noticed these small injuries. He gave Matt's chest a reassuring pat. His eyes were shut tight, his breathing now shallower and more even, evidence that the laudanum was beginning to take effect

"Go on, get some sleep now," he said softly before rising.

"You sure you don't want me stay with you, Doc?" asked Chester for the fifth time as he entered the bedroom again a short while later. "I just don't like leavin' you here all by yourself an' all--not with that Biggs-fella runnin' about loose out there anyways."

Doc looked up from his chair beside Matt's bed.

"Oh, you just--just get outta here," he said gruffly, waving the young man off, "don't you worry about me, I'll be fine."

"Well, if you're sure then," replied Chester still somewhat unconvinced. Despite the doctor's assurance, he was not completely willing to believe that it was wise to leave the two men by themselves--not with Dan Biggs somewhere out there on the loose.

He still couldn't understand it.

He had seen the outlaw go down, felled by the powerful blow of Luke's rifle, and he still had trouble believing that the man had simply walked away. When they had searched the site last night, the light of the lantern had revealed a fair amount of blood where the outlaw had lain, but they hadn't been able to glean any further clues as to where he could have gotten to.

"Say, you got that list I gave you?" Doc now wondered, rousing him from his musings.

Chester nodded, patting his shirt pocket. "I got it right here, Doc."

"Good. Make sure you an' Kitty gets those things from my office an' bring them back with you just as soon as you can."

"Yes, Doc, don't you worry a thing, I'll see to it that you get ev'rythin' you need. You just--" he paused, his eyes flicking to the Marshal who was lying so deadly still, "you just take good care of Mister Dillon here."

He swallowed the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat and quickly limped from the room.

_x_

"Come on, ole churn-head."

Luke Crandall spoke softly to the big roan gelding as he led him from the barn. He had started to take a liking to Dan Biggs' raw-boned mount and found it somewhat fitting that he was using the outlaw's own animal in the search for him.

By now, the sun had fully risen, its intensity so early in the morning carrying with it the promise of another hot, Kansas summer day.

Crisply, the ex-Sheriff adjusted the cinch strap on the saddle. His movements were efficient and clipped, just like everything else he did.

At the sound of footfall, he now raised his head to glance over the horse's broad back, watching as Chester came limping towards him across the yard.

"Well, sure looks like you're all set there," the young jailer said as he came to a halt beside the horse.

Luke nodded.

"Yeah, I figured I better get started and see if I can't pick up his tracks...havin' daylight oughtta help some."

Chester scratched his head.

"Well, I sure don't understand it," he mused, still feeling at a loss,"it just don't make no sense at all." He lifted his eyes to meet Luke's across the animal's back. "I mean, I saw him go down, Luke an' the whole time we was there, he didn't move an inch--"

Slipping his big rifle into the saddle boot, the older man dispensed a weary sigh.

"We both saw him go down," he replied pointedly, "but that didn't mean that Biggs was dead. I should've known better and checked."

Chester realized that Luke had a point. It was true--neither one had taken the time to see if Biggs indeed had been dead.

Luke slung the water canteen over the saddle horn and gathered up the reins. He toed the stir-up but then paused.

"Chester, when you get to Dodge, tell Millie that it might be best for her and the young'uns to stay at the Dodge House for a little while longer."

Chester raised a hand and nodded.

"I'll be sure let her know, don't you worry."

Luke swung up into the saddle.

"Thanks," he said as he adjusted the reins in his hand and pulled the horse's head around.

"Good luck to you," said Chester, "I sure hope you find him."

"So do I, Chester, so do I." He touched his hat brim. "Well, so long."

Nudging his heels to the roan's flanks, he cantered from the yard, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.

For a moment Chester stood and looked after him, gazing along the trail until the dust had settled. He wasn't sure which task was the more unpleasant one; Luke's--trying to track Biggs or his, having to take Stanton back to Dodge.

Unable to decide, he drew a long, deep breath and moved for the barn to saddle their horses.

He still felt extremely uneasy about the idea of leaving Doc and Mister Dillon alone, knowing that Biggs was still alive and out there somewhere, but he knew that there was nothing he could do about it.

_x_

Somewhere out on the prairie, huddled up and well concealed from searching eyes, someone else was thinking of the Marshal, too--but his thoughts were not exactly of the friendly kind.

They were thoughts of revenge, fueled by fierce anger and hatred.

The hate was consuming him, was so strong, he no longer felt the pain along his right side where a bullet had grazed him and taken out a chunk of flesh. He felt no hunger, no thirst, only burning, irrational anger.

_Dillon would pay for this...He'd make sure of it this time..._

Over and over did he repeat the words to himself, keeping the flame of hate burning brighter until it filled every last crevice of his mind.

_No, nobody had ever messed with Dan Biggs the way this Marshal had and lived to tell about it, and he wasn't about to let it happen now._

_to be continued..._


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

_x_

As the day wore on, Doc was forced to watch helplessly as the Marshal's condition steadily worsened. The fever continued to rise and his sleep grew increasingly restless despite the administration of larger doses of laudanum.

By now the whole room smelled of it. The heavy, camphor stink of the opium-based drug hung cloyingly in the air and made it thick, hard to breathe.

Refusing to acknowledge his own rapidly growing exhaustion, the doctor continued to tirelessly sponge Matt's face and chest with cool water in hopes of getting the fever under control.

"Come on now, Matt, you gotta fight this," he murmured encouragement as he dragged the cool cloth across his friend's sweat-laced brow, the words spoken for his own benefit as much as for the Marshal's, "you can do it, old boy, come on now."

But if the Marshal heard him, he gave no indication. His eyes remained shut tight as he shifted on the bed, groaning softly from time to time. He was bathed in sweat, his breathing labored.

Heat continued to flame angrily from the infected area on his shoulder and twice more, the doctor cleaned the wound, washing it with the only thing he had at hand--Luke's whiskey. Every time, Matt tossed fitfully through the entire procedure, his body convulsing, his face a grimace of pain at the blistering sting of the alcohol when it touched the inflamed wound. And every time Doc had struggled to restrain the much stronger man until the buffeting agony had passed and the lawman had collapsed limply back against the pillow.

The afternoon was wearing thin, inching close to evening without much change in Matt's condition. In Doc's opinion, he only seemed to be getting worse.

Unable to sit any longer, he stood up and thrust his hands into the pockets of his worn trousers. He wished Chester would get back with the much-needed medications, but at the same time found himself doubting that they would be able to make a difference.

Attempting to ease the growing restraints of his frustration, he began to pace the floor, the bristling strike of his heels echoing loudly through the otherwise quiet house.

He had just given Matt the last dose of laudanum. But though the lawman was sleeping peacefully for the moment, the doctor couldn't stop the involuntary stray of his eyes to the bed. The deep, drugged sleep had--if only temporarily--erased all traces of pain from his friend's face. The awful writhing was quieted. He lay still with barely a rise of his chest to show that he lived at all. His body had finally relaxed and stretched out in slumber and now lay the full length of the bed. Modesty had long ago given way to practicality as the doctor worked to save Matt's life, leaving the lawman covered from the waist down only by a thin quilt.

Doc reached for the coffee he'd nursed for the last thirty minutes and took a sip. It was only lukewarm and quickly growing bitter. With a disgusted scowl, he set the cup aside again and crossed to the window, glancing out across the dusky landscape.

Outside, the hard, packed dirt yard was stained with the ruddy glow of the dying sun as it settled into the cradle of the hills far to the west. He noted absently that the shadow from the barn was long enough now to reach the side of the house.

Suddenly, his eyes caught sight of movement on the top of the rise and a short moment later, a wagon, pulled by a team of horses came into view. It was silhouetted only briefly against the skyline and then disappeared as it blended with the dirt road that wound its way down the hillside.

Doc breathed a sigh of relief. Chester had finally returned.

Fifteen minutes later, the pocket watch in one hand, he was stooped over the bed, checking Matt's pulse when he heard the welcome creak of the front door as it was swung open.

Above the tell-tale, irregular clomp of Chester's booted feet, he could discern the soft, light footfalls of a woman's step drawing near; it died abruptly on the threshold to the bedroom.

Doc snapped the watch closed and replaced it to his vest. There was no need for him to turn; he already knew who was standing behind him.

Shoving one hand down into his pocket, he tugged at his earlobe with the other. He was dreading the next few minutes, knowing the pain it was going to cause Kitty having to see Matt in the shape he was in, but then again, he saw no way of avoiding it.

Suddenly, he felt old and very, very tired.

Turning slowly, he took a step away from the bed.

"Come on in, Kitty."

Her eyes touched Doc and then slid to the bed.

She moved her lips, but no sound came out. The word "_Matt_" never made it to an audible level as she stood for a long moment, just staring in disbelief at the still figure stretched out on the bed in front of her. Despite Chester's gentle attempts to prepare her for what to expect, seeing Matt now came as a complete shock to her.

Slowly, hesitantly, she finally began to move closer, her eyes fixed on the man lying before her.

The man she loved.

Silently, Doc moved aside as Kitty lowered herself onto the edge of the mattress.

_Matt--_

Biting down hard on her lower lip, she leaned forward and reached out a shaky hand to touch the tips of her fingers to his brow, gently letting them trail down the side of his face. She was startled by the blistering sting of heat emanating from him.

Her throat dried up completely, her face working in useless effort to choke back a sob. She could hardly believe that the man before her was the same tall and handsome cowboy she had breakfast with only three short days ago. The tan embedded in his face was now overwritten by the unhealthy flush of fever, a bruise was beginning to deepen around a blood-encrusted gash on his right cheekbone and his damp hair was tousled over a forehead sheened with sweat.

Out of its own accord, her hand reached up, attempting to smooth the unruly curls back in place.

"He's gonna have black eye, Doc," she murmured, half to herself, unable to tear her eyes away from Matt.

_A black eye. What a foolish observation. Surely the least of his worries, _Kitty chided herself.

A hand came to rest on her shoulder, squeezing it gently, understandingly.

"I wouldn't be surprised, Kitty," said the doctor softly.

He felt her shoulder tremble beneath his touch as she still mindlessly tried to stroke the stubborn curl back in place.

Forcing down the lump in her throat, Kitty finally lifted her anxious gaze to look into the doctor's face. She was disturbed to find it carefully and professionally shuttered.

_This was unlike Doc._

She stared at him, trying to read something--anything--from his expression.

Doc?" she finally said wearily, fearing--she didn't dare let herself think what it was she feared, "he gonna be all right, isn't he?"

The lines of strain were evident in the older man's face. His troubled blue eyes contemplated the Marshal's waxen features. With slow deliberation, he dragged a hand across his mustache, hesitating.

"If I could tell you, Kitty, I could tell me," he said at last, deciding it was best to be straightforward with her. "He took a bullet to the shoulder and he's lost a lotta blood--an awful lot. I got the bullet out, but what damage it's done I can't tell just yet. Biggest problem right now is the infection. I think he's got a good fightin' chance to pull through all right if we can get the fever to come down."

Though he had tried to keep his tone carefully neutral, Kitty was well aware of the thread of uncertainty in his voice.

The cold knot of dread that had been in the pit of her stomach ever since yesterday, suddenly unraveled itself and rose into her throat to choke her. The thought of losing Matt was terrifying, unthinkable.

Her gaze turned back to the unconscious lawman and she traced her fingers down his forearm until her palm closed gently on the bones of his big wrist. The fingers curled slightly and she could feel the faint rhythm of his pulse jumping beneath his skin. It assured her somewhat.

Slowly, her hand brushed lower over the back of his hand, painfully noting the lacerations and crusted blood that still covered his knuckles.

A hand, huge and callused, strong and powerful, yet at the same time also incredibly gentle. She knew what tender touch it was capable of, knew from firsthand experience. It hurt to see it now lying limply draped across his stomach, devoid of any strength, incapable of simple movement.

Her fingers gently closed around it.

"You hang in there, cowboy, you hear me?" she whispered, "don't you dare die on me now."

A single tear splashed onto the back of her hand where it clasped Matt's.

Doc's comforting hand settled back on her shoulder again, but Kitty barely took notice of it, finding herself unable to take her eyes off the man she loved.

"S'cuse me, Doc--"

The physician raised his head to find Chester standing in the doorway.

Holding a tightly wrapped package in one hand, the young man now stepped into the room with two long, limping strides.

"Well, here you are," he said, holding it out to the physician, "I got ev'rythin' you asked for."

Doc's brow creased with a slight frown.

"By golly, where 've you been?" he groused as he accepted the parcel and immediately began to tug the strings off, "I been wonderin' about you--"

Chester scratched his forehead as though not knowing exactly what to do with himself.

"I'm sorry that it took me so long, Doc," he apologized, "I'm just as sorry as I can be--but I had to go an' get Shiloh to keep an eye on that Stanton over at the jail, an' then I had to find me a couple of fellas to come out an' give us a hand lookin' for Biggs."

"Well, that's good," grumbled Doc in response, somewhat mollified by the idea of having more than just one man looking for the missing outlaw.

Chester's gaze slid from the doctor to the Marshal, his expression suddenly changing to one of worry.

"How's Mister Dillon?"

Doc was busy scrutinizing the parcel's contents, pleased to notice that everything seemed to be there.

"He's about the same Chester," he said without looking up.

"How about the fever, Doc? He still gots the fever?"

The doctor nodded slowly, the movement one of grave concern as his own eyes tracked back to Matt.

"He sure does...it hasn't broken yet."

Chester studied the physician intently for a long moment. He looked tired and worn, the strain of the last two days mirrored in his weary blue eyes. His hair was mussed, stray strands curling haphazardly over his forehead, adding to the lines of fatigue etched into his face. Yes, Doc looked definitely troubled, a step shy of exhaustion.

"Ya know what I think you oughtta do, Doc?" the young man now said, "I think you oughtta go an' get a little rest, let Miss Kitty here spell you for a while."

Doc looked up, as if surprised at the suggestion. He gave Chester a long, considering look and realized that he was right. His gaze slid to Kitty who nodded her agreement.

"All right," he said at last, scratching his ear, "I think I will. I sure could do with some coffee."

"Well, Mrs. Crandall's out there, makin' some right now,"offered Chester as he pointed towards the door, "she left them young'uns with Ma Smalley, figurin' we could use an extra hand here."

"Well, that we sure can," agreed Doc. He turned to Kitty again and pointed out the wash basin on the bedside table.

"Kitty, why don't you see about keepin' Matt cool for me? I'll be right outside if you need me."

His hand gave her shoulder a final, reassuring pat and Kitty reached up, briefly folding her hand over his.

"Sure, Doc."

Satisfied, the doctor turned. "Come on, Chester," he said as he began to usher the jailer towards the door.

Quietly, the two men slipped from the room, leaving Kitty alone with the unconscious Marshal.

The door closed with a soft click and Kitty automatically turned her attention to the bowl sitting on the bedside table. Dipping a cloth into the cool liquid, she wrung off the excess moisture.

"Here, Matt," she whispered softly, "this'll help."

Gently, she began to drag the rag over his face and neck, stroking aside the glistening beads of sweat.

Matt moaned softly at the touch of the cool cloth against his sweaty brow but didn't waken.

Dipping the cloth a second time, Kitty now gently smoothed it over the so familiar planes of his chest and stomach, taking care to avoid the immediate area close to his shoulder wound.

Matt shifted and groaned beneath her ministrations, his sleep growing more restless. His breathing became uneven and ragged as he tossed his head on the pillow. He mumbled something, but his words were slurred by the fever, making them indecipherable.

"Sshh, Matt," she soothed him as she continued to tenderly dab his face with the soft, dampened cloth, trying to loosen the last of the blood and dirt from his skin that Doc didn't have time to bother with.

Matt's eyelids twitched slightly.

There was something about the tone that made his restless movements cease. For a moment, his pain was forgotten as he tried to focus on the familiar voice, the soothing reassurances penetrating his feverish mind. Then he felt something soft on his cheek, the touch a blissful anchoring presence.

_He recognized the hand, recognized its soft and tender touch. _

Instinctively, Matt turned his head into it, seeking the comforting warmth of the familiar hand.

Encouraged, Kitty continued to gently stroke his sweaty face and murmur reassurances. Eventually, she soothed him into submission and his raspy breathing gradually slowed to a more steady rhythm.

From the main room, the mingled voices of Doc, Chester and Millie drifted into the bedroom. She couldn't make out what they were saying and didn't really care--the only thing that mattered right now was the man lying before her.

Outside, the sun had faded from the sky and the deep twilight had begun to settle among the cottonwoods. Inside the little house, Kitty pulled the chair closer to the bedside as she prepared herself for the long, arduous vigil.

_x_

Sam Parker whistled softly to himself as he let his sorrel mare pick her own way along the dirt trail leading towards Miller's Bend. The path he was following was not a road in any true sense. It was a route sketched on a map laid down in his own mind. He knew where he was headed, and he knew the way he had to go to get there.

The rancher was a happy man today. In his pocket was a substantial amount of money--money he had made from the sale of his cattle.

It was later in the day than he would have liked and he was looking forward to getting home to the comfort of his ranch house and getting something good to eat from his wife's kitchen. After a sketchy breakfast and nothing all day, he was so hungry, he had a hollow pain behind his belt buckle.

It was very quiet in the fading heat of a bright summer's evening, almost a little too quiet, but Sam didn't notice. His mind was on an incident that had taken place in town earlier. Chester Goode, Marshal Dillon's assistant had gathered the men folk of Dodge outside the jail, informing them that the lawman had been shot by Dan Biggs and that he needed to organize a posse. Some men had shied away upon hearing the name of the notorious outlaw, but most of them had readily volunteered to give a hand in bringing Biggs to justice. It hadn't surprised Sam in the least; Matt Dillon, with his keen and unwavering sense for justice, was well-liked and well-respected by the citizens of Dodge.

Caught up in the excitement, he had briefly considered joining the search party himself, but thoughts of the man they were going after had caused his budding courage to falter rather quickly.

No, he wasn't a hero--nor was he a fool. He hadn't lived to reach his fifties by trying to be either one and he wasn't about to start now. Besides, he now reasoned with himself, the Marshal got paid to keep the peace--the chance of getting shot was just one of the risks that came with being a peace officer. Dillon could hardly expect another man to do his job for him and risk his life.

For some reason--maybe it was his conscience speaking on account of the callous thought--Sam suddenly began to feel strangely uneasy.

As he looked around to orient himself, he realized that he was only but a few miles from the Crandall's homestead, the place where this Biggs was said to have disappeared. The fact only added to his uneasiness.

The rancher, picked up the reins and pulled his mount to a halt. He straightened in the saddle, the leather creaking beneath him with the movement.

His body tensed and every slow, measured movement betrayed his concentration as his alert, amber-colored eyes moved about.

The dusky landscape with its green flecks of buffalo grass and small groves of trees, lay serene all about him.

But still, he couldn't help the sudden, disturbing feeling that he wasn't alone anymore.

_Somebody was out there with him_.

The daylight was fading fast and Sam had to strain his eyes to penetrate the murky twilight. The warm air was filled with the rasping of crickets and cicadas and the end-of-day squawkings of birds. Nothing seemed amiss, but he still couldn't shake the eerie feeling that had overtaken him.

He lifted his hand to scratch at the spiky gray stubble that clothed his cheek.

It was probably just his hunger making him imagine things, he finally decided. Maybe he'd better get on his way.

Resolutely, he reached for the reins.

But Sam Parker never got around to picking them up.

Without warning, something suddenly came hurling through the air, striking the mare on the rump with a dull thud.

Tossing her head, the animal whickered in surprise and pain alike, reared then bucked and bolted, kicking her hind legs high in the air.

It caught Sam completely off guard. Before he could do anything about it, he felt himself leave the saddle, barely managing to kick free of the stirrups as he started to fly.

The next thing he knew, he was tumbling and rolling, hitting the rocky ground with teeth-rattling force. Something sharp dug into his arm, and his head took one bang and then another.

Reins and stirrups flying, the horse disappeared along the trail in a flat run. The quickly fading rattle of its hoofbeats rang in Sam's ears as he lay dazed belly-down in the dust, trying to catch his breath. His head was aching fiercely where it had struck repeatedly against the scattered rocks and he groaned.

Suddenly, he became aware of a new sound. A shuffling, scurrying noise as if someone was approaching on foot.

Sam struggled to roll himself onto his back even as the dark shadow of a man fell over him.

The rancher blinked, desperately trying to focus on the looming presence before him, but his surroundings were like images viewed through cracked glass--off center and watery.

"Who--who are you?" he managed to get out as he continued to rub at his eyes, trying to rid them of the dirt and fine grit that filled them.

There was no answer--all Sam could hear was a man's raspy breathing.

The sound of it chilled him to the bone.

Frantically, his right groped for the gun at his side, but--it was gone.

"Lookin' for this?"

The voice was unfamiliar; the tone soft yet with a clearly dangerous, almost menacing edge to it.

Blinking desperately, Sam finally managed to clear his vision just long enough to get a brief glimpse of the man who was towering over him, his colt grasped tightly in his right.

But it wasn't the gun that caused the rancher's features to widen with horrified recognition--it was the stranger's face.

It was also the last thing Sam Parker registered before the butt of the colt smashed into his temple, sending him spiraling down into the black abyss of darkness.

_to be continued..._


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

_x_

A first lightening in the eastern sky heralded the beginning of a new day. Around him, the men had begun to move about, some already saddling up their horses while others, like Chester, were still nursing their coffee. A cup of the jailer's freshly made brew in his own hand, Luke Crandall watched as the arc of the sky paled and turned from blue, to gray, to a sudden, startling pink. Then the edge of the sun appeared, turning the long, flat line of the horizon to fire. As often as he had seen it in his forty-some odd years, it was a display of such unrivaled magnificence that it never failed to stir his soul.

The ex-lawman gazed across the solid expanse of the prairie, wondering if the new day would bring with it any sign of Dan Biggs, or even better--the outlaw himself. Together with the twelve men that had rode out from Dodge yesterday, he and Chester had tirelessly combed the entire area surrounding Cross Creek, leaving not a stone unturned. When the daylight had inevitably given way to night, they had lit lanterns and continued the search by their feeble light. But try as they might, their efforts had proved unsuccessful and they had finally decided to call the search off until morning and make camp in the Crandall's yard.

The night hadn't cooled off much and the new day was dawning bright and clear without the slightest breeze and a promise of more heat to come.

He swallowed another mouthful of bitter coffee and pulled a face. _One thing was for sure, _he couldn't help but think as he ruefully eyed the contents of his battered tin cup, _Chester could definitely learn a thing or two from Millie about making coffee. _

He tipped the rest of the brew into the flames of the small cook-fire, effectively dousing them and creating a hissing cloud of steam.

"Better get movin' soon," he explained across the smoldering remains of the fire when Chester threw him a rather startled look. It wasn't a lie and beat insulting the young jailer's coffee.

After a quick briefing, he divided the men up into groups of three and pointed out the areas to be covered by each with the help of a crude map he had drawn into the sandy soil.

Nobody had any objections and soon, the men were mounted up and ready to move out.

Dust and small rocks scattered beneath the horses' hooves as the twelve riders rode from the yard a short moment later to make their way up the sloping hillside.

It didn't take them long to reach the fork in the dirt trail where they had left off the previous night. Luke reined his mount to a halt and raised his hand, signaling the others to do the same.

He turned the roan so that he was facing the small group.

"All right, men, this is where we split up," he said as he leaned forward and rested one forearm over the saddle horn, "Calhoun, you and Wales take the east side of Miller's Bend down to the old Thorpe place." A sweep of his hand indicated the direction. "Trimble and Latham, you take your men down the wash towards the Becker's. There are a lotta places a man can hide, be sure to look everywhere. Jeff, Chester...we'll cover the area from here to the west edge of Miller's Bend."

Rance Trimble regarded the ex-lawman doubtfully as he used his neckerchief to mop perspiration and trail dust off his face. His eyes, a faded brown in a heavily tanned, leather-skinned face were squinted almost closed against the brightness of the sun. The rancher had never been exactly the most patient of men and a long night with very little sleep had done little to improve his disposition.

"You really reckon he could've walked that far if he's got a bullet in him?" he now said.

Luke turned his steel-gray eyes on Trimble, meeting the other's gaze levelly.

"I don't know," he answered truthfully, "but we can't rule out anything. Truth is, I don't know how badly he's wounded."

Scratching the dark stubble on his cheek, the rancher seemed to consider this.

"All right," he said at last, but it was obvious that he still wasn't very enthusiastic, "we'll do it, but I gotta feelin' we're only wastin' our time."

He jerked his horse's head around with unnecessary vigor and a moment later, the three riders set off in the opposite direction, leaving a lingering cloud of dust in their wake long after their horses' hoofbeats had died away.

Luke tugged the brim of his old slouch hat down lower over his bushy, graying brows as his eyes lingered on the quickly disappearing riders for a moment longer.

_Every posse had to have its Trimble, _he thought with an imperceptible sigh--he had certainly seen his share of them in his twenty years as a lawman.

Shifting gears, he gathered up his reins and then addressed the two remaining men.

"Well, let's spread out some more. Chester, you keep to the middle, Jeff, you check among those trees over there an' I'll take the left."

Jeff Worth and Chester moved out and the next half hour passed uneventful as they rode in silence, their alert eyes searching the terrain for any sign or trace of Dan Biggs.

Suddenly, Luke sat up straight in the saddle, tensing.

The back of his neck itched, dead-square center, just below the hair line. It was a sign he had learned to pay heed to a very long time ago. Some sense, finer than hearing or sight had picked up an indication that something wasn't right.

Luke had been an upholder of the law, in one guise or another, for more years than he chose to think about. Though officially retired now, all his senses were still fine-tuned to the job, and that included his sixth, seventh and eighth senses. They were the vital instincts that had enabled him to reach a ripe age in a perilous profession.

His attention became needle-sharp, and with a slight shift of his weight and a tug on the reins, he brought the roan to a stop.

Surprised, Chester reined his chestnut in when he saw the other's sudden alert stance.

"What's the matter? Somethin' wrong?" he wondered as he brought his horse abreast with Luke's.

The ex-lawman's eyes were fixed on some point off in the distance, his voice slow, considering as he spoke.

"I'm not sure--"

He pulled himself more erect in the saddle and stood up in his stir-ups. His sharp gray eyes narrowed and began to slowly, intently scan the rugged terrain of the surrounding prairie.

_Something wasn't right, he could sense it._

Beside him, Chester and Jeff Worth followed suit and let their eyes travel over the area Luke seemed to be staring at.

Suddenly, Jeff thrust out an arm over his horse's head. Something dark, lying against the paler, stone-colored ground had attracted his attention.

"Over there!" he shouted as he pointed a good forty yards to his left where the dried-out trails gave way to green buffalo grass and a loose scattering of trees.

Squinting against the brightness of the sunlight, Luke glimpsed the dark bulk of a man's body, lying huddled up on the ground.

Kicking his horse into a swift canter, he headed straight for it, Jeff and Chester following after him.

Moments later, Luke pulled up his mount with a jerk on the reins that made the gelding toss his head in protest. Quickly, he swung down out of his saddle, dropping the ends of the reins to the ground and slipped his rifle from the scabbard.

As he cautiously neared, he could see that the man was on his side, half curled. He also saw the blood that had seeped from a deep gash at the back of his head and turned to a dark paste on the ground where it had mingled with the sand and dust.

Setting his rifle aside, the ex-Sheriff hunkered down beside him and carefully turned him over.

"Oh, my goodness," exclaimed Chester immediately before he even had dismounted, "that's Sam Parker there!"

He climbed from his saddle in a hurry and joined Luke, crouching next to him on the rocky ground. The two men exchanged a glance and the ex-lawman responded with a nod upon seeing the query in Chester's eyes.

"He's still alive."

Chester swallowed hard, his expression stricken as his eyes trailed back to Parker's waxen face.

"Sam," he said, carefully touching the man on the shoulder, "it's Chester Goode, can you hear me?"

Sam Parker groaned. His chest heaved. He blinked a few times and then slowly raised gritty eyelids. Hazel eyes, now dull and already glazed over by impending death, were seeking Chester's face but couldn't find it.

"Sam," Chester tried again, "who did this to you?"

The rancher's hand came up, blood-stained fingers feebly clutching at Chester's shirt front as his lips mouthed senseless, soundless words.

Chester leaned close but couldn't hear. Looking up, he shot Luke a desperate look. The ex-Sheriff shook his head ever so slightly.

There was nothing he could do, the man was dying.

"Sam," Chester tried again, his eyes searching the other's face, "you gotta tell us...who did this to you?"

Sam's mouth moved again. The last breath bubbled in his throat. His eyes fixed and glazed, he struggled to muster up the strength to utter one final word.

_Scar_.

_x_

Back at the Crandall's house, the Marshal's condition remained unchanged. Thanks to Chester, Doc now at least had an ample supply of laudanum at his disposal to keep Matt as much sedated as he dared.

Together with Kitty and Millie Crandall, he took turns to tirelessly bathe the lawman's fevered body in hopes of breaking the high fever that had set in the previous night.

As one hour ran seamlessly into the next, a heavy silence had descended over the house. It was broken only by the doctor's occasional murmur of gentle reassurance whenever Matt grew too restless beneath the painful procedure of cleaning and draining the wound--something which the doctor had to repeat several more times during the course of the day.

Presently, Kitty sat with Matt while Doc was in the main room of the Crandall's house, mixing another batch of laudanum.

Suddenly, the tell tale rattle of a wagon's wheels outside in the yard caught his attention. It was soon followed by the clomping of hurried footsteps on the porch.

Curious, the doctor raised his head as the door was flung open a short moment later.

It was Chester.

He looked out of breath and clearly hassled as he quickly glanced around the room and then settled his eyes on the physician.

"How's Mister Dillon, Doc?" he wondered as he stepped inside with several long, limping strides, "he feelin' any better this mornin'?"

Doc looked at him, surprised by his unexpected presence.

"He's about the same, Chester...no change at all."

Chester nodded thoughtfully.

"Well, leastways he ain't any worse," he reasoned.

A slight frown began to pucker the doctor's brow.

"Golly, is that why you came back--to see how Matt was doin'? I thought you was s'posed to be out there lookin' for that Biggs-fella."

Chester scratched the nape of his neck, not quite sure how to put it.

"Well, I was, but then we--what I 's gonna say is--" he fumbled his words, "Doc, there's somethin'outside I think you oughtta take a look at."

"Oh?" wondered Doc, "well, can it wait? I gotta give Matt his medicine here."

Chester shuffled his feet.

"Well, Luke wanted me to make sure you take a look at him right aways."

"Take a look at _him_?"

Now the doctor was definitely puzzled. "Well, who's it he wants me to look at?"

"It's Sam Parker, Doc."

Undisguised confusion rippled across Doc's face.

"Sam Parker? Why, what, in tarnation's he doin' here?" He scratched his ear, sure that he hadn't seen Parker with the rest of the posse last night. _Maybe the rancher had joined up with them this morning, _he reasoned with himself.

"Well, all right, bring him in here, I s'pose," he relented.

Chester began to shift nervously.

"I don't think you'd want me to do that--"

Doc looked at him, now even more confused. "I don't?--well, why, in thunder's, that?"

"Because--" Chester quickly looked around to make sure neither Kitty nor Millie were nearby and then lowered his voice, "because he's--dead."

"DEAD!" Doc's voice rose several levels, "what do you mean, he's dead?"

Chester winced, a painful expression on his face.

"For goodness sakes, just keep it down, Doc, will ya," he pleaded, patting the air with his hands, "the ladies might hear you."

Immediately, Doc waved him off, slapping the air in front of him.

"Oh, pshaw," he groused, but neither the gesture nor the words bore a lot of conviction. "You mind explainin' to me what happened?"

"Well," Chester began, "we's found him about three miles west from here on the way to Miller's Bend...Biggs musta clubbered him on the head by the looks of it--his gun's gone an' so's his horse."

Doc sniffed and swiped at his mustache again.

"Clubbered on the head by Biggs, huh?" he softly repeated to himself as he absorbed the bad news.

Chester's face was dark, his expression troubled.

"Yeah, an' I gotta feelin' it ain't botherin' him too much--killin' a man, I mean. I tell ya another thing, too, Doc--that Rance Trimble an' them other fellas ain't likin' it to much either...they's just about ready to shoot that Biggs on sight an' then string up what's left of him."

The doctor hadv to agree.

"Well, let me tell ya, I can't say I'd feel too sorry for Biggs if that were to happen--golly, not after what he's done."

"No, neither do I, Doc. I swan--that fella's just plump outta his head."

Doc nodded gravely.

"Yeah, that sure's one way of puttin' it."

"Ya know, Doc," said Chester, another, rather unsettling thought suddenly striking him, "I just thought of somethin'--you reckon he's gonna come after Mister Dillon now?"

Doc scrubbed a hand across his chin without looking at Chester. The thought had been troubling him ever since he had found out that Biggs was gone.

"I'm afraid there's a good chance of that, Chester," he said at last, "you can never tell with a man like that. He slipped his moorings, he's off-balance--that makes him unpredictable."

The doctor's words did little to ease Chester's mind--if anything, they made him worry even more.

It wasn't lost on Doc.

"Well, why don't you just go outside an' wait," he said as he picked up the glass with Matt's medication from the table, "let me give this to Matt here an' I'll be right with you."

Chester nodded.

He turned and hobbled from the room to wait for the doctor to officially confirm what everybody already knew--that Sam Parker was murdered, murdered by Dan Biggs.

_x_

The subsequent examination of the rancher's fatal injury indicated that a rather forceful blow to his head had fractured his skull, the shape of the head wound suggesting the possible use of the butt end of a rifle or pistol.

This new turn of events left everybody extremely uneasy, lending the matter a whole new sense of urgency. Not only did it confirm beyond doubt that Dan Biggs hadn't been as badly injured as everyone had thought at first--to matter worse, the outlaw was now armed, and since Sam' horse hadn't turned up anywhere as of yet, most likely had a mount as well.

The question as to what needed to be done next, left everyone divided.

Most of the men from Dodge, outraged by the gruesome murder, were eager to get on with the search, more than ready to find and string Biggs up rather than turn him over to the law. This wasn't just about Marshal Dillon anymore--this was now about the murder of one of their own.

It didn't take much for Rance Trimble, who had been a friend of Sam's, to convince the others that the outlaw had made a run for it. The angry rancher stubbornly refused to acknowledge Doc's argument that Biggs wasn't thinking and acting like a normal man--instead, he urged for action, arguing that the outlaw already had a head start of several hours on them.

Trimble's belief was backed by the fact that the posse had searched virtually everywhere in the surrounding area, had left no stone unturned without finding even the smallest trace of Biggs.

Luke and Chester, along with Doc on the other hand, were more inclined to believe that Biggs was anything but gone, most likely still lurking somewhere, waiting to finish Matt off. Unfortunately, they had little proof to support their suspicion, and argue as they might, most of the men remained unconvinced.

After talking back and forth for almost ten minutes, they finally decided upon allowing two men to remain behind to keep watch at the farm while Luke would lead the rest of the posse in search of Biggs. None of the men were eager to stay behind and glad when Chester and Jeff Worth volunteered.

A good half hour later, the horses rested up and outfitted with supplies, the men were ready to move out again.

Chester threw a rather disgusted glance towards Rance Trimble, watching as the rancher mounted his big bay. He turned to the ex-lawman who was tightening the cinch strap on his saddle.

"I still think they're wrong, Luke," he grumbled frustrated, "you'll see, they ain't gonna find Biggs 'cause he's still hidin'out here somewhere...I just know he is."

With a final tug, Luke pulled the cinch strap tight and lowered the stirrup. His face was wary, his expression grim.

"I know how you feel, Chester," he said, his usually mellow voice sharpened by a distinct edge, "but there's always a good chance that we're wrong and if that's the case, I can't allow those fellas to lynch Biggs if they happen to find him. They'll all make themselves just as guilty of murder."

Chester could only reluctantly agree, still thinking that he was right and the others were wrong. He watched dejectedly as the ex-lawman backed the roan away from the hitch rail and gathered the reins in his left.

"You know, Chester,"said Luke as he toed the stirrup, "I hope you're wrong. I really do. But no matter what-make sure you and Jeff are on the guard at all times-especially tonight. Remember, Biggs is armed now-" He hoped, almost against hope, that Trimble was right and that Biggs had made a run for it, but deep down, he doubted it.

The jailer looked grimly determined.

"Oh I ain't gonna forget...don't you worry none, I ain't gonna let Mister Dillon outta my sight."

"Neither will I, Crandall," added Jeff Worth as he stepped up alongside Chester.

Luke swung up into the saddle.

"Well, good luck to the two of you," he said.

Chester raised a hand. "Good luck to you, too, Luke."

"Come on, Crandall," growled Rance Trimble impatiently, "we're wastin' time." The big bay horse was restlessly milling beneath him, its hooves scratching impatiently at the rocky soil.

Chester's face darkened immediately. He scowled.

"Oh, that Trimble--"

Luke glanced down at the jailer as he laced the reins between his hands.

"It's all right, Chester, just remember what I said."

The young man nodded, sending a look of worry after him as Luke nudged the roan into an easy jog and rode from the yard, eleven angrily determined men in tow.

_Chester had a bad feeling. A very, very bad feeling about it all._

But despite his notion, the remainder of the day passed rather uneventful. The jailer had taken up residence on the small front porch, fiercely determined to protect the lawman from Biggs at all cost while Jeff Worth was walking the perimeter of the yard, watching closely for anything amiss beyond the boundary of the crude split-log fence.

Slowly but surely, the day began to ease into evening as the sun sank beneath the cradle of the treeline, turning the sky a deep cobalt blue. Inside the house, the lamps had been lit, their light glowing brightly in the gathering darkness.

Kitty set the cloth aside and looked across the bed at the physician as he was listening to Matt's heartbeat.

"Doc?"

At the query, he straightened and removed the ear pieces, sliding the stethoscope down around his neck. He raised his head and met her gaze over Matt's chest.

Her hands were loosely folded over the lawman's limp arm.

"How much longer could this go on?" she wondered, "what if his fever doesn't break soon?

The same question had been on the doctor's mind as well. His hand came up and slowly brushed over his mustache and chin as he gave her a long, considering look. Although she was making every effort not to show it, he could tell that she was clearly exhausted, physically and emotionally. There was a visible, tangible fear lurking in the depths of those usually sparkling blue eyes of hers that he couldn't deny. It stabbed at his heart and he wished he could give her the answers she wanted to hear. But all he could do was shake his head, at a loss.

"Kitty, I wish I could tell you--it could be another day, maybe another two, three days, I just can't say."

His own weary eyes strayed to the tall lawman who lay sprawled on the bed, the quilt neatly tucked around his lower body from the waist down. His face, still flushed by fever and stippled with tiny beads of sweat was twitching now and then, the muscles beneath the skin contracting on their own accord as he tossed his head on the pillow, muttering incomprehensible strings of words.

Doc laid the back of his hand against the side of the Marshal's face to find the fever's intensity unchanged.

"Matt's young and strong, Kitty," he reassured her, "as long as his body continues to fight the fever, there's hope."

_Hope_. It wasn't much, but it was the only thing they had left to hold on to.

An unexpected turn came sometime in the early hours of the next morning as dawn was just appearing at the edges of the eastern horizon. Without warning, the tossing and murmuring abruptly stilled as Matt fell into an exhausted sleep.

Encouraged, Doc examined him while Kitty and Millie anxiously looked on.

Moments later, the examination completed, he straightened, offering an encouraging smile.

"Well, by golly, it's hard to believe but his fever's down," he informed the two women as he pulled his wire-rimmed spectacles off, "and by the looks of it, there's no excessive fluid in the wound. It seems we beat the infection."

"Oh, thank God," whispered Kitty as the tension slipped from her face. She let go the breath she'd been holding and unwound her hands.

Millie and Doc exchanged a quick glance, smiling tentative smiles.

"We'll let him sleep for a while," Doc continued as he folded up the spectacles and replaced them to their case, "but I want you two to try an' get some broth into him when he wakes up. He's probably gonna be awful weak."

Doc's words had in fact been an understatement; Matt barely had the strength to lift his head when he awoke several hours later.

It was thirst that tugged him awake.

His mouth wasn't just dry, it felt stuffed with cotton thistles. He swallowed with difficulty. His eyelids scrunched then began to blink rapidly as he forced them up to make sense of his surroundings. The vaguely familiar sight of a raw wood ceiling and the neat but plainly decorated walls of his borrowed bedroom slowly cleared. The room was dusted by the muted glow of mid-morning sunlight streaming through the dust-streaked windowpanes. It laid across his bed, making the old quilt take on a jeweled radiance. Black, spidery shadows of the big cottonwood outside by the window fluttered across the wall opposite and Matt managed a flicker of a smile upon noticing an addition to the scenery.

"Kitty?" he queried weakly, wincing as his voice came out as little more than a scratchy hiss.

But though the word had held no strength, she had heard the soft inquiry nonetheless as it penetrated her light slumber.

Kitty came instantly awake.

Matt's face was turned towards her, his expressive blue eyes, now free and clear of the feverish glaze, looking straight at her.

Surprise gave way to joy, instantly erasing the lines of exhaustion from her pretty face. She rose from the chair and moved to sit beside his shoulder. For one brief moment, she feared she would try to fling herself into his arms and embrace him, but she managed to fight down the urge.

"Hey, cowboy," she said softly instead, brushing her thumb across the back of his broad hand that lay draped across his stomach.

"Kitty...water," he whispered, unable to muster the strength needed to speak any louder.

Retrieving the pitcher from the bedside table, Kitty partially filled a glass and then gently cupped a hand behind his neck to support his head.

"Here, Matt," she said as she tipped the glass to his lips.

Though managing only a few swallows, it was enough to strengthen his voice. When he was finished, his head fell back against the pillow.

"Thanks," he murmured thickly.

Kitty set the glass aside. A warm smile brightened her tired features as she studied his face. The face of the man she loved.

Though his complexion was still pale beneath his tan, the flush of fever was now gone. A heavy growth of reddish stubble, the result of not having shaved in four days, clothed his cheek and jawline, making him look rather rugged. Her fingers reached up and brushed over his forehead, fondly stroking back an errant lock of hair.

"How do you feel?"

Matt licked at dry lips, still finding it rather difficult to speak.

"I--I...felt better..."

Kitty offered a sympathetic smile and patted his hand, thinking that he undoubtedly had looked better, too. But she wisely kept that observation to herself.

The touch of her hand on his, brought his gunshot wound to the forefront of his--still somewhat sluggish thoughts, and Matt craned his neck in an attempt to get a good look at his left shoulder. He could feel that his left arm had been bandaged firmly against his body to prevent him from trying to use it, but the wound itself was too well covered in bandages and gauze to gauge how it looked.

Shifting his eyes back to Kitty, he asked, "how long--" he paused trying to clear a throat that still felt hoarse and scratchy, "how long...have I--"

Her fingers tightened their clasp on his at the daunting memory of the last couple of days.

"It's been two days since Doc took that bullet out."

He raised his brows in weak surprise as Kitty's statement registered.

She nodded and Matt closed his eyes again for a moment as weariness washed over him.

"Two days," he repeated softly.

He drew a breath, and flinched immediately as the expanding of his lungs send a stab of pain through his chest and back. Then another thought came to him.

"Doc...how's...Doc?"

Kitty smiled gently; Matt's growing inquisitiveness was a sure testament to his recovery. It was apparent that he didn't recollect too much of what had happened in the last two days though.

"Doc's just fine," she reassured him, "I'm sure he'll be glad to see you awake."

"How--how about...Biggs?" he then asked, his voice now holding a bit more of its usual timbre as unsettling memories began to slowly resurface in his mind.

Kitty hesitated, not sure whether she wanted to tell him of Biggs' escape just yet.

"Chester and Luke Crandall have dealt with him," she said at last, "there's nothing for you to worry about. Now why don't you just lie back and rest easy for a while, I'll be back later with something to eat for you."

It wasn't a lie, Kitty told herself, it was true--the two men _were_ dealing with Biggs.

Matt glanced at her, uncomprehending.

"Luke...Crandall?" The name was just a faint memory fragment, a piece of a puzzle that left him struggling to place it.

"Doc'll explain it all to you later, Matt. Now why don't you try and get some more sleep."

Her thumb began the familiar track across the back of his hand, gently stroking over scabbed knuckles.

Though his head was still heavy and thinking was still difficult with the lingering effect of the laudanum, he recognized her unwillingness to discuss the subject right away.

Matt focused his sleep-heavy eyes on her, a shadow of his so familiar smile flickering over his face. His fingers folded over hers, securing them briefly in the warm, possessive cup of his palm.

"All right...I s'pose...I can...wait," he mumbled, his attention already slowly drifting away.

From somewhere beyond the door, the soft din of dishes clicking together and the muffled clamor of voices--Chester's and another woman's, he thought--brought a measure of comfort that was like a drug, slowly coaxing him to close his eyes again. Exhausted, he surrendered to the darkness, allowing it to gradually pull him under once again.

Kitty sat beside him for a moment longer. Tears began to mist the corners of her eyes as it finally dawned on her that he was truly going to be all right. They were tears of gratitude, tears of relief, and she didn't bother holding them back as they trailed wetly down her cheeks.

_He was going to be all right._

Once again, had he beaten the odds that always seemed so unfavorably stacked against him. Once again, had he eluded death that always seemed to be lurking, ready to claim him at any given moment.

She waited until his breathing had evened once again into the rhythmic cadence of slumber. Only then did Kitty carefully extricate her hand from beneath his and rose to stand.

For another moment, she stood, just looking at him. His face was quiet now, the lines of pain that had marked it for the last couple of days, smooth. With a gentle smile, she reached down to pull the colorful quilt up higher to cover his chest, securely tucking it under.

The soft scuffle of footsteps floated across the room, telling her that Doc had entered. He shuffled around the other side of the bed and glanced down at the sleeping lawman.

"How's our patient doin'?"

Kitty raised her eyes at the softly spoken query.

"He was asking about you."

Doc tugged at his earlobe, pleased with the news.

"He was, was he?"

Kitty nodded and her face turned serious. "He also asked about Biggs."

The doctor swiped a hand across his mustache, the gesture one of slow contemplation.

"And--did you tell him?"

Kitty shook her head slightly, her gaze once again on Matt's face.

"No, Doc," she said softly, "I didn't tell him."

"Good. Then let's try an' keep it that way--I'm afraid, he'll find out soon enough."

He pulled the pocket watch from his vest and then stooped to take hold of Matt's wrist to check his pulse.

A short moment later, he released the Marshal's wrist with a satisfied grunt. As he straightened back up, he couldn't help but notice how exhausted Kitty looked.

"Kitty, why don't you go an' let me spell you here for a while?" he suggested, "go get somethin' to eat and then get yourself some rest. I let you know when Matt comes to again."

Kitty responded with a tired smile that only served to confirm the doctor's observation. She smiled and nodded agreeably.

"All right, Doc, maybe I think I will."

She reached across the bed, giving his hand a brief, thankful squeeze and then slipped quietly from the room.

_x_

Millie looked up from the basin where she had been absorbed in the task of scrubbing the dinner dishes when she saw Kitty step out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.

Dragging her arm across her forehead to brush a stray strand of graying hair from her face that had come undone from the plait, she turned.

"How's Matt?"

Remaining with her back to the door, Kitty used her handkerchief to dab a few remaining tears from her face.

She lifted her gaze and her eyes, now bright with relief, met the older woman's.

"He came to for a little while and talked some," she replied and then paused, once again feeling overwhelmed with joy.

"Oh, Millie, he's really gonna be all right," she added, smiling.

A big smile tugged at Millie's lips as she wiped her hands dry on her apron.

"Of course, he's going to be all right, Kitty. What else did you expect--a big strappin' fella like Matt?" She chuckled. "What he needs to do now is start eatin' to regain his strength. I made some broth you can take to him when he wakes up again."

Kitty was deeply touched by the other woman's thoughtfulness. Millie Crandall, with her always positive, no-nonsense ways had definitely grown on her over the course of the past few days.

"Thank you, that's very kind of you, Millie."

The older woman waved her off.

"Oh, don't mention it," she said, "you just see to it that Matt eats and gets plenty of rest."

Kitty pulled a face as she absently pleated the small, lacy handkerchief through her fingers.

"Well, good luck on that last one--I've never known Matt Dillon to lie in bed for any longer than he absolutely had to. When it comes to minding Doc's orders, he can be downright stubborn."

Millie chuckled softly.

"Matt's a fine man, Kitty. S'matter of fact, he reminds me a lot of Luke when he was younger. So committed to his badge and dedicated to upholding the law, never afraid to stand up for and defend what he believed was right."

Kitty recognized these particular traits at once. She sighed.

"Well, that's Matt all right."

Millie studied the pretty redhead thoughtfully and suddenly couldn't help seeing herself so many years ago. She placed a hand upon Kitty's forearm, gently patting it.

"Kitty, I know how you feel, believe me, I've been there--more than once." She shook her head. "Oh, I couldn't tell you all the times I nursed Luke back to health and sat with him, not knowin' whether he'd live or die. There were times when I thought I just couldn't take it any more and I promised myself that I would leave as soon as I knew he was goin' to be all right."

"But you never did," ventured Kitty, already knowing the answer.

Millie smiled to herself.

"No, I never did," she conceded, "I knew that he needed me. Even though he had a hard time saying it out sometimes, I knew that it would've hurt him terribly if I left."

For a moment, Kitty pondered Millie's words, but before she had a chance to respond, the other woman's mind had already shifted gears.

"But enough of that," Millie suddenly declared, "you go an' sit down now--it's about time you had somethin' to eat yourself."

Kitty tucked the handkerchief back into her sleeve and shook her head slightly.

"Maybe later, I'm not all that hungry right now."

But Millie, always a practical woman, wouldn't have any of it.

"Oh, nonsense, I don't wanna to hear it," she declared firmly as she pulled a clean bowl from the shelf above the stove, "you need to keep up your own strength. What do you think Matt's going to wannna see when he wakes up again? You won't be any good to him if you make yourself sick, young lady."

Without further ado, she began to fill the bowl with a stew, thick with tender bits of beef, carrots and potatoes and handed it to the pretty redhead.

Kitty had no choice but to accept it.

"Well, all right," she relented, secretly thankful for Millie's persistence. Deep down, she couldn't deny the hollow feeling that had begun to spread in the pit of her stomach.

Satisfied, Millie proceeded to fill a mug with freshly brewed coffee. Then she picked up a plate of skillet corn bread and followed Kitty over to the table.

For a while, neither one of the two women said a word and the only sounds that could be heard were the clatter of the dishes and Millie's soft humming.

Suddenly, Millie grew still. Setting aside the dish rag, she turned.

"Kitty, do you really think that this Biggs is still around?"

Kitty replaced the coffee cup on the table, her expression growing troubled.

"Well, Doc, Luke and Chester certainly seem to think so, and I'm inclined to agree. If you'd have seen this man, you'd understand--he was just terrible."

Millie shook her head.

"Well, for once I hope that Luke's wrong," she said, "as far as I'm concerned, I hope that this Biggs is clear to Mexico by now."

_x_

But Dan Biggs was far from gone. He was close, very close--

_to be continued..._


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

_x_

"You're lookin' a mite better today, Dillon," said Luke Crandall to announce his presence as he stood on the threshold, his shoulder hitched against the door jamb. He was pleased to see the Marshal sitting up in bed--his bed to be exact, but he wasn't about to point that out.

Matt turned at the sound of the by now quite familiar voice and watched as the ex-Sheriff came strolling into the room, a cup of coffee in his hand.

"Hello, Crandall," he acknowledged the older man as he gingerly nudged himself into a more comfortable position against the cushioning embrace of multiple pillows.

A low groan and a grimace of pain were the result of his effort as his shoulder reminded him painfully that it had only been five days since Doc had taken the bullet out. His left arm was now immobilized by a sling, the forearm bandaged tightly against his stomach. His hand was still numb and useless, but Doc had reassured him that it would improve as his shoulder healed.

Luke pulled up the chair and sat down, straddling it, casually draping his arms across its back.

The pained expression on the Marshal's face wasn't lost in him.

"Better take it easy there," he warned with a nod at Matt's shoulder.

Awkwardly, using only his right hand, Matt began to tuck the quilt back around his waist that had slipped down and bunched in his lap with his movement. With recovery had come awareness, and he had quickly learned that the colorful bedcover was the only thing maintaining his modesty.

"Yeah, I guess I better," he muttered, wishing not for the first time that someone would bring him at least his pants and shirt.

"I see you finally allowed Kitty to give you a hand with shavin'," Luke now remarked upon noticing the Marshal's clean, shaven face. He remembered the fuss the lawman had put up yesterday, insisting that there were some things a man just had to do on his own when Kitty had offered her help. Apparently, he had changed his mind since then. "I gotta admit, you're almost startin' to look human again," he added with a teasing grin and was pleased to see a smile curve the lawman's lips in response.

Matt allowed himself a small chuckle as he remembered how he had struggled to shave the stubble from his cheek yesterday morning while Kitty had held the mirror for him. It hadn't been the easiest task, but he had managed to accomplish it without adding any more cuts to his already rather scraped-looking face. Carefully, he touched his fingers to his right cheek. The gash above the cheekbone had closed and was now covered by a crusty scab, but the bruises and swellings were still clearly in evidence of the beating he had taken from Biggs and his cohorts.

"Well, thanks," he said.

Luke took a sip from his coffee as he studied the Marshal's battered features.

"You know, another week or two of Millie's cookin' and Kitty's attention an' you'll be as good as new," he offered encouragement.

But Matt was being a little more realistic.

"Well, I don't know about that," he said doubtfully, "but I know one thing, I'll sure be glad to get outta this bed."

The afternoon sun was shining warmly through the dusty quarter panes of the window, its bright, golden light creating a dazzling pattern against the plank flooring. The high, tinkling laughter of little Carrie, mingled with the playful giggles of her older brother Rory, drifted in from the yard, and not for the first time Matt wished that he could leave the confines of the bedroom he had come to know so intimately during the past few days.

Luke answered with an understanding grin.

"I know how you feel, trust me...but I'm afraid that's still up to Doc Adams to decide."

Matt raised his brows, one corner of his mouth quirking up, the other down.

"If it was up to Doc, he'd have me hand my badge over to Chester an' keep me in bed for the next three weeks."

Unlike the rest of his body, his voice had regained its full former strength, booming deep from his massive chest as he spoke.

Luke grinned easily in response.

"An' that's exactly where you belong, Dillon."

Matt smiled politely but then his smile thinned and vanished altogether. His expression grew serious.

"Say, Crandall, I don't think I've had a chance to thank you for all you've done."

Right away, Luke waved him off.

"Oh, it's all right, don't mention it, Dillon, I'm sure you would've done the same for me."

"Besides," he then added, his own voice now growing serious,"you can thank me when I catch that Biggs-fella for you an' put him where he belongs."

Hearing the name, reminded Matt at once of how Doc and the others had conveniently 'forgot' to mention to him the fact that the outlaw had somehow managed to get away. His forehead creased with a slight frown. He probably would have never found out if it hadn't been for Chester accidentally slipping the news the other day. His eyes automatically strayed to his gunbelt that hung looped over the left post of the headboard.

"Any sign of him yet?" he then wondered as he shifted his gaze to the ex-lawman again.

Luke took a last sip from his coffee and set the empty cup down onto the bedside table where it joined the Marshal's. He shook his head slightly as he thoughtfully scratched a bushy brow.

"No, still nothin'," he finally said after expelling a long, frustrated breath, "it's been five days now and we've searched practically ev'rywhere. You know, I'm startin' to think that maybe we're wrong after all and he's made a run for it."

As much as he wanted to, Matt had a hard time believing it. He had experienced the outlaw's dangerous tenacity firsthand to know that he wasn't one to give up easily.

"Well, it's hard to tell with a man like that," he said carefully, not wanting to rule out completely the possibility that Luke could be right, "Biggs' got a belly full of hate and can't wait to let it out. He's capable of doin' almost anything--he's proved that already by killin' Sam Parker."

Luke twirled one end of his droopy mustache as he gave Matt's words consideration.

"Let's say you're right and he's still out there somewhere--where d'you reckon he could be? I just don't know where else to look for him. Most of the men have quit and I can't say I blame 'em--they got farms, families to look after. It's down to Chester an' me an' that young Worth-fella."

Matt couldn't blame any of the men either; after searching day and night for four days without as much as a trace of Biggs, he could see why they figured the outlaw was long gone by now. But be it as it may--the fact that Dan Biggs was still on the loose, remained and something needed to be done about it. He leaned forward, his eyes meeting Luke's levelly.

"Look, we both know what Biggs is after--maybe there's a way of drawin' him out, lettin' him come to us, instead of us havin' to look for him."

Luke arched an eyebrow curiously as he prompted, "You mean bait him?"

"Somethin' like that," concurred Matt, pleased that the other was following so quickly.

The ex-lawman's face scrunched up ominously.

"Let me guess...and you plan on being the bait--"

Matt shrugged.

"Well, it's me he's after."

Luke lifted a brow in doubt.

"You think that's wise?"

But that was apparently the least of Matt's concerns.

"Let me put it to you this way," he said, "I don't see how else we're gonna draw him out."

Right away, the ex-Sheriff raised his hand to wave him off and shook his head.

"Forget it, Dillon."

Matt frowned. "Look, you got a better idea?" he wondered, sounding just a little testier than he had intended to.

But Luke, if he had noticed, didn't give any indication. His voice was calm, docile as always as he replied.

"No, I don't, but your plan's just a little too chancy if you ask me."

But that wasn't good enough an argument for Matt.

"Takin' chances is part of my job,Crandall," he countered, "havin' been a lawman yourself, you oughtta know that."

Luke nodded slowly, considering and there was a sudden change in his disposition, a hint of regret and sadness in his voice when he spoke again.

"Yeah, I know what you mean, I know all too well--and that's why I don't like your plan." He eyed Matt speculatively. "Tell me one thing--how long have you been Marshal?"

Matt didn't see what the question had to do with Biggs but decided to humor the older man.

"It's been four years last month," he said.

His answer had come quick, didn't require contemplation.

"Four years," repeated Luke thoughtfully, reflecting on it for a moment. "It's not gonna get any easier, Dillon," he then added.

Matt rolled his good shoulder in response.

"I don't expect it to."

_It was true--he never had._

The other nodded knowingly.

"It's gonna get a lot easier to take things for granted though--"

Matt didn't know what to say to that so he remained silent and Luke went on.

"Let me tell you, I've sure taken my share of unnecessary chances in the last twenty years and I live to regret most of them. You know that woman out there? Millie? God knows what I put her through without even givin' it any thought. I was a fool and didn't see it back then. Now I wish I could undo it, but I can't. You got a little gal out there, Dillon--she obviously cares about you a great deal, and, unless I'm very much mistaken--"

He paused, a knowing smile curving the lips beneath that big mustache, "--you care about her, too. Take my advice an' don't make the same mistake I made...don't put her through what I put Millie through."

Matt wasn't quite sure what to make of the strange turn their conversation had taken. Nevertheless, Luke seemed rather serious and he resolved to remain polite about it.

"Look," he answered patiently, "I'm not sayin' you're wrong, but there's a difference...you an' Millie are married, Kitty an' I are not. Besides, Kitty's known from the beginnin' who I am an' what I do. She understands that takin' risks is part of my job."

Luke gave a soft, mirthless chuckle.

"Is that what you think? Well, maybe you're right about that last part, but you're wrong about one thing...Millie an' I didn't get married until three years ago--after I resigned from my post."

Matt regarded the ex-lawman with mild surprise. Somehow, Luke and Millie had struck him as a couple that's been married happily for a long time.

Luke picked up on the Marshal's surprise and his own expression turned rueful.

"It's funny how things sometimes go, Dillon. When I first became a lawman, Millie an' I decided to wait, save up a little money first before gettin' married so we could buy us a little spread somewhere. Two years later, we had the money. When I put my resignation in, the town begged me to stay on. And you know what I did?"

Matt didn't answer, knowing that it hadn't been a real question, and Luke went on.

"I said yes. She never complained. I knew she was disappointed, but she never said a word. After that, there was always another outlaw to chase, another brawl to break up, another prisoner to guard. She was always there for me, nursed me back to health when I got shot--still she didn't complain."

Luke paused as if reflecting on what he'd just said. When he continued, his tone was wistful, carrying a distinct touch of regret.

"Before I knew it, twenty years had passed and I was still the Sheriff in Lamar. Then one day, I took a bullet to my back. Almost killed me. If it hadn't been for Millie--"

His voice trailed off and he looked at his hands. He was quiet a moment and then drew a deep breath before lifting his head to gaze Matt in the eye.

"You know what I did as soon as I was able to get outta that bed?"

Still trying to adjust to the rapid shift in conversation, Matt found himself struggling for the right response.

"No," was all he could think of.

"I turned my badge in and married her. You know, Dillon, a man's a fool if he can't recognize a good thing when he sees it."

Matt contemplated the man before him thoughtfully, still not quite sure what to make of Luke's confession. But before he could contemplate the matter any further, the soft patter of little feet against the smooth plank flooring drew his gaze to the doorway.

Barefoot, the worn rag doll clutched against her chest, Carrie came traipsing into the room. She now looked quite different from the little rag-a-muffin she had been when he had first met her a week ago. Her reddish curls were soft and shiny now, the stained, blue calico dress replaced by a pretty, soft green one with a cream-colored pinafore.

She came to a halt beside the bed and cocked her head, regarding Matt from her expressive green eyes.

"Hi, Marsal," she chirped happily.

Matt flashed her a smile.

"Well, hello, there, Carrie."

The little girl had been a frequent visitor to his bedside ever since Doc had brought her and Rory back from Dodge the day before yesterday. Her visits--whenever she had managed to slip away from her aunt undetected--had been a welcome diversion to the lawman who was growing increasingly bored.

"What's that you got there?" he wondered, pointing to her right hand. Her chubby, little fingers were folded tightly over her palm, obviously holding something in their grasp.

At the query, Carrie held out her hand to him, uncurling her fingers to reveal a rather wilted-looking daisy lying in her small palm.

"Look," she declared in her cheerful sing-song voice.

Before the Marshal could comment on it, she had already slipped it into his hand.

"For you," she stated proudly as she beamed up at him, revealing two rows of tiny white teeth.

Matt glanced down at the droopy flower in his palm and then shifted his gaze to Carrie.

"Well,...ah... thanks," he stammered, clearing his throat as he tried to think of an appropriate response, "that's...ah...that's very nice of you, Carrie."

Luke chuckled. He reached out and lifted the toddler up, placing her on his lap.

"You know what I regret the most, Dillon?" he said as he fondly stroked Carrie's baby-fine curls, "never havin' young'uns of my own." His voice grew quiet, wistful again. "It's funny how fate works--my brother dies, now we have two."

"Should I come back later?" a friendly voice suddenly interrupted from the doorway.

The two men turned at the query to find Kitty standing just inside the door, a tray in her hands.

Luke shifted Carrie in his arms.

"No, it's all right, Kitty...I was just fixin' to leave anyway. Chester oughtta be back from Dodge any time now to spell me an' I figured I take another ride out there an' look around some more."

He stood to leave, hesitating at the side of the bed. His steel-gray eyes had regained their twinkle as he looked down at Matt, but something deeper lingered there, too.

"Remember, Dillon--the only baitin' you're gonna do for a while is with a hook an' a fishin' pole an' that only when Doc tells you it's all right to do so."

With a parting smile, Luke walked past the redhead towards the door, his boots clicking loudly against the floorboards.

Kitty arched a curious brow, her eyes following him as he left the room, closing the door behind himself.

"What was that all about?" she wondered as she stepped up to the bed, setting the tray down onto the bedside table.

"Oh, nothin' much," replied Matt evasively, not thinking it wise to tell Kitty about his plan of baiting Biggs, "we were just talkin'--"

His words were met with a suspicious look.

"About fishing?" she prompted.

He shrugged, unable to help himself from suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable under her scrutinizing gaze.

"Somethin' like that."

Now Kitty frowned. _Who did he think he was fooling_?

"Well, here's your lunch, cowboy," she said, her tone considerably cooler now, "enjoy it." She straightened, about to leave but Matt's hand on her arm stopped her.

"Can't you just stay a little?" he wondered. Luke's earlier confession, as strange as he had found it at first, was suddenly playing heavily in his mind. He gazed into the depths of her sparkling blue eyes, their color a perfect match to his.

Kitty stared at him for a moment, instinctively sensing that something was on his mind. Her frown eased.

"I suppose I could," she replied at last, pursing her lip. Sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him, she looked at him expectantly.

Matt cleared his throat reluctantly.

"Ah...Kitty," he said after a short pause, "there's somethin' I wanna ask you--"

She cocked her head a little, watching his face earnestly.

"Sure, what is it?"

Leaning his head back into the support of his pillows, Matt began to run his fingers through his hair, rubbing at the scalp underneath as though the stimulation might help put his complicated thoughts into simple words.

At last, he brought his eyes to focus on her beautiful face.

"Kitty," he began, "you know that bein' a lawman sometimes means takin' chances. It's part of who I am an' what I do. I don't always like it, but at times it becomes necessary. You understand that, don't you?"

For a moment, Kitty regarded him, momentarily nonplussed by his words, wondering what had brought this on.

She had known Matt for a little over four years now and from first time they had laid eyes on each other on that dismal, rainy day at Delmonico's, there had been an immediate, strong and mutual attraction between them. For the first three months, they had simply been friends. Sometimes, on quiet nights, she and the young Marshal had been _very_ good friends. But that was all they had allowed themselves. Both of them in careers that held no place for the stability of a permanent relationship--or so at least they had thought, she and Matt had tried to keep theirs casual, without false expectations, without making any demands on the other. But as the months had gone by, they had found the deepening of their affection for one another harder and harder to ignore until it had become impossible to deny any longer.

From the very beginning of their relationship, there had always been an unspoken understanding between them in regards to their jobs. Matt had never complained about her line of work, but she knew that he had been more than pleased when she had become co-owner of the Long Branch almost two years ago and hung up her saloon girl dress. Kitty in turn, had always known what his badge meant to him, what it represented, and as much as she would love for him to give it up and stop putting his life on the line on a daily basis, she'd never want him to give it up because of her--not unless he was ready to do so on his own. True, she had talked about it, had needled him a little now and them, but they both knew that it was just one of her ways of dealing with the stress and tension that came with being a lawman's woman.

Kitty leaned forward and folded a hand, small and fragile-looking, over his broad one. Her eyes were sincere, reflecting warmth and love when she locked gazes with him.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, Matt...there are times when I wish you'd stop wearing that badge," she said, "but I also know what it means to you and I'd never ask you to do something you're not ready for. When you are, I'll be there."

She knew that he loved her and that he would give up, willingly, his badge or anything else, if she just asked him.

She loved him enough to never ask it.

Until he was ready to commit to anything more serious, she was content to know that she had the full and undivided love of this tall and handsome lawman. Although--looking at his scraped face and mussed hair, she had to concede that 'handsome' was definitely in the eye of the beholder at the moment.

Her eyes were positively twinkling now and a little smile turned the corners of her mouth upwards.

"Just do me one favor--"

Prompted by the sparkle in her eye, his mind began to suddenly conjure up more than one favor he'd like to do. He felt a pleasant and familiar tightening in his body at the thought of it, regretfully knowing at the same time that none of them were about to happen anytime soon--not in the shape he was in anyway.

"Why, sure," he wondered,"what is it?"

"Promise me you won't make it twenty years."

_Not exactly what I had in mind,_ Matt thought ruefully. But he smiled back, his eyes gentle as his strong but sensitive hand closed over her forearm.

"Luke's right about one thing," he said, "twenty years is a long time. I don't know if I'd wanna wait that long."

Kitty regarded him with an expression of controlled amusement, her lips twitching in a smile.

"I hope you don't mind if I'll remind you of that once in a while--"

She braced one hand against his thigh and leaned forward to kiss him lightly on the lips.

Matt drew a long breath and his chest rose as he filled his lungs with the scent of her. The kiss was over before he could fully appreciate it as Kitty pulled back.

He raised his brows in the direction of her hand on his thigh.

"You know, I wouldn't do that if I were you," he intoned softly, flashing her an impish grin.

Kitty lifted a brow.

"Why? Don't you like it?" she wondered innocently, knowing good and well what he meant.

Matt made a face, not thinking that it was necessary to answer that one, but he found a sudden need to shift _just_ a little.

"Say, where's Doc anyway?" he now asked, thinking it safer to change the subject, "he hasn't been around since yesterday--"

"Oh, Chester says they have the whooping cough over at the Stevens' place," Kitty offered in explanation, "but he said that Doc promised to be by later to check on you."

Matt laced a hand through his hair, scowling as his fingers caught in the sticky tangles.

"Good. I can't wait to get outta this bed."

Besides needing a bath, he needed fresh air. He needed the confidence that came with being on his feet again, of being in control, rather than controlled. But he was smart enough to keep his thoughts to himself. He knew that Kitty would tell him that it was far too soon, and Doc would gruffly insist he stay in bed.

Fortunately Doc wasn't here and Kitty couldn't watch him every minute. He decided to wait until she had left the room and then give it a try, see if he could manage to walk a little.

"You're not goin' anywhere without these, Marshal Dillon--"

Surprised Matt looked up to see Millie Crandall standing in the doorway, holding up what he'd been looking for--his freshly laundered pants and shirt.

"Kitty, you better watch him," the older woman now advised as she came walking into the room to hang the clothes over the footboard, "I've seen that look in his eyes too many times on Luke not to recognize it."

Millie winked at Matt and the two women chuckled as the lawman pulled a face and released a frustrated breath.

Nobody inside the house was aware of the danger that was lurking so close by, biding its time, knowing that the right moment to strike was drawing near.

_to be continued..._


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

_x_

Chester Goode wasn't sure what to make of it.

This morning while at the Marshal's office, word had gotten to him from Sam Parker's widow that Sam's horse had been found. Miles, Parker's oldest son had come across the sorrel mare with her reins tangled in the brush less than a mile from their ranch. There was no telling exactly how long the animal had been there, other than it couldn't have been more than four days.

The most important question now--the one that stuck foremost in Chester's mind was; _where was Dan Biggs?_Somehow he had suspected all along that the outlaw was far from gone, but he didn't feel any satisfaction at finding his thought confirmed. It was more the opposite; the unsettling notion that Biggs could very well be close by, watching their every move made him nervous all over again, and he was anxious to share the news with Luke Crandall as soon as possible.

He took a quick look around him to determine where he was.

Ahead, the small rise with its scattering of trees and soap brush now came into view and behind it lay Cross Creek and the Crandall's homestead. The little spread, with its collection of barn, various outbuildings and corrals lay in a green fold of the prairie with a dense growth cottonwoods close by the house and a creek meandering by. It was a place he had become quite familiar with over the course of the last week.

Chester shifted his weight in the saddle and shortened the reins. Tapping the heel of his good foot to the horse's side, he nudged the chestnut into an easy canter to finish the last mile of his ride.

His arrival was soon noticed. Sitting in the shade of the huge cottonwood that grew right outside the Marshal's bedroom window, Rory and Carrie were enjoying themselves, showering the big tabby cat with affection. The animal was taking it with stride. With an occasional twitch of her tail, she lay comfortably sprawled on her side, soaking up the welcome attention as small hands gently stroked her silky, sun-warmed fur.

Suddenly, Rory's head perked up, distracted by the muffled drumming of hoofbeats. His gaze settled on the trail that wound its way down the sloping hillside and his sharp eyes quickly picked out the dark form of a horse and rider as they broached the horizon at the top of the rise.

He hurriedly scrambled to his feet, startling the feline in the process. Meowing in protest, the animal gracefully leapt a few paces before settling down beside the water trough. For a short moment, she watched the children intently from luminous, green eyes and then began to lick her paws.

"It's Chester! It's Chester!" the little boy began to shout excitedly when he recognized the rider who was now coming down the dirt trail at a steady pace. It hadn't been all that difficult to make out who he was. Rory had quickly learned that there weren't too many men around who rode with their right leg in a long stirrup.

Bouncing up and down with excitement, he nudged his little sister who had clambered to her feet as well and was now standing docilely beside him, sucking on her thumb.

"Come on, let's tell Uncle Luke!" he said with the enthusiasm, typical of a seven-year-old. He whirled around, his bare feet pounding the dust as he dashed across the yard, Carrie toddling behind, struggling in vain to keep up with him.

The boy's shouts hadn't gone unnoticed. By the time Rory reached the porch, his uncle was already standing at the edge of it, squinting against the glare of afternoon sunlight off towards the approaching rider.

"I seen him first," exclaimed Rory panting for breath as he jumped up the wooden porch steps, two at a time, to come to a stop before the towering presence of his uncle.

"No, me see first!" protested Carrie immediately as she, too finally reached the porch a short moment later. A scowl on her chubby face, she pattered up the steps and pushed herself in front of her brother, vying for her uncle's attention.

A nudge from Rory was her reward for which the toddler quickly retaliated with one of her own.

"No, you didn't!" he said, shaking his head vigorously.

"Me see!" she insisted loudly.

"Now hold on there, you two," laughed Luke as he crouched down before the two youngsters who had become a part of his family only a short week ago, "why don't you two mosey on inside and see if Aunt Millie's got some of those lemon drops left."

He affectionately ruffled Rory's blonde curls that had been cropped by Ma Smalley into a more manageable style and then straightened back up.

Their little disagreement was quickly forgotten.

With whoops and shouts that closely resembled the cries of an Apache war party, the two children noisily bustled through the door to disappear into the house seconds later.

Luke allowed himself an indulgent grin as he watched the rag doll being dragged across the threshold, barely clearing the door before it closed on its hinges with a bang. He turned his attention back to the trail. The rat-a-tat cadence of hooves against the stony soil echoed loud and clear in the stillness of the warm July afternoon as Chester came riding into the yard at a ground covering jog. The ex-lawman could tell right away by the tense way the young man rode that something important was on his mind. He hoped it was good news.

With a tug on the reins, Chester brought the chestnut to a halt when he reached the porch moments later. He easily swung his bad right leg over the horse's croup and planted it in the dust with a soft crunch while freeing his left toe from the stirrup.

"Luke," he said without preamble as he looped the reins over the crude hitch rail, "they's found Sam Parker's horse this mornin'."

Chester's words confirmed Luke's suspicion--although it wasn't exactly the kind of news he had hoped for.

He glanced down at the jailer.

"Where at?" he wanted to know.

Bringing his hand up to shield his eyes against the bright glare of sunlight, Chester squinted up at the porch and wagged his thumb over his shoulder.

"Well, Miles Parker says he's found him about a mile west of their ranch--all tangled up in the brush he was."

Luke stroked his droopy mustache thoughtfully, quickly calculating the distance to the Parker's place in his head.

"That's past Miller's Bend," he muttered to himself, realizing that it was at least a good five miles from here.

"What do you think could've happened there?" wondered Chester as he now came clomping up the porch steps with his peculiar, lop-sided gait, "you reckon Biggs could've lost the horse?"

The older man bit his lip and shook his head.

"I don't know, Chester," he voiced his uncertainty, "it's possible, of course, but there's no real way of tellin' for sure."

"Well, maybe he never had the horse at all, ya know--it could've just run off on him," Chester now ventured.

Luke nodded slowly, willing to accept that as a possibility.

"That or Biggs let it go on purpose, hopin' we would chase after it, thinking he was tryin' to make a run for it. What he didn't count on, was the animal gettin' tangled."

Chester mulled that over, realizing that there were quite a few possibilities, one as plausible as the next. It was quite frustrating.

He pulled off his hat and began to brush the trail dust off it.

"I reckon that means we're right back where we started now," he surmised gloomily.

The ex-lawman was in partial agreement.

"Well, not quite--we know that without a horse, Biggs couldn't have gotten very far--especially not bein' wounded."

Chester scraped his thumbnail along the nape of his neck as he fixed Luke with a surprised look.

"But you said yourself, we don't know how bad he's hurt...what I mean is, it coulda been just a scrape--"

Luke leaned back against one of the porch posts and removed his old slouch hat. He ran a hand over the top of his thick, graying hair to thoughtfully scratch the back of it.

"No, Chester," he said at last, "I know it's more than that."

His bullet had hit Biggs' torso. He was fairly certain of that. By all means, the outlaw should have been dead, or at least badly wounded_. Why was it that they hadn't found him yet? _

The perceived blunder on his part continued to weigh heavily on his mind and Luke felt it was his responsibility to right it.

There was a contemplative expression set on his weathered features as he stared across the yard and off into the distance. It was afternoon and the shadows were already creeping. Although he knew how to tell time by a clock, he rarely used the old, silver-embossed pocket watch that had once been his father's. Looking at the angle of the shadow that the barn was throwing onto the hard-packed soil of the yard, he figured it was about three or a little after. Early enough to put a couple more useful hours of search in.

He straightened, about to tell Chester of his intentions when the door suddenly swung open with a soft creak of the rusty hinges.

It was Kitty.

Having spent the past several nights at the Crandall's, she looked more rested than she had in days. The dark shadows under her eyes had disappeared and she wore a smile to complement the simple fawn-colored skirt and sea-foam green blouse she had donned this morning.

"Hello, Chester," she greeted the young jailer as she stepped out onto the sun-warmed porch to join the two men, "we were just told that you arrived."

Her blue eyes twinkling, she cast Luke a bemused glance who smiled mildly in return, knowing all too well the identity of her little 'informants'.

Chester touched his fingers to the brim of his battered, brown hat and nodded.

"Miss Kitty," he acknowledged her politely. But despite the smile he had managed to plaster to his lips, the tense expression on his face remained.

Kitty picked up on it immediately and concern began to darken her eyes.

"Anything wrong?" she asked uneasily as she fixed him with her inquiring gaze.

Chester shuffled nervously in response, not sure whether Luke wanted him to tell her the news. His eyes slid to the ex-Sheriff, looking for guidance.

Right away, Kitty's own eyes moved to Luke's in request for an answer.

The ex-lawman cleared his throat and straightened away from the porch post he had been leaning up against. The big, tabby cat came skulking up the stairs on padded paws, rubbing her back against Luke's boots in a plea for attention.

"Kitty," he began, ignoring the soft meows of the feline, "we just found out that Sam Parker's horse turned up, about a mile west of Miller's Bend."

Kitty regarded him with slight confusion. His eyes were shaded by the brim of his hat, but she didn't need to see his face to know that this was apparently significant--the troubled tone of his voice spoke for itself. Although she had known the ex-lawman for only little less than a week, she had quickly learned that when Luke was worried, it meant that there was something to worry about.

"Well, what does it mean?" she wondered, instinctively knowing that it had something to do with the elusive outlaw.

Chester rolled his shoulders as he haplessly rubbed his neck.

"Well, to tell ya the truth, we ain't so sure what it means," he admitted rather lamely.

"I was just fixin' to ride out there, Kitty," Luke spoke up when he saw a natural and understanding concern beginning to take hold in her eyes, "I was gonna take a look at the horse and talk to Miles. Maybe he's seen anythin' that could be of help to us."

Chester turned his gaze on the ex-lawman.

"You want me ride along with you?"

But Luke didn't see that wise--especially now that their suspicion that Biggs was still in the area had been confirmed beyond doubt at last. He shook his head slightly.

"No, Chester, I think it'd be better for you to stay here."

Chester hesitated as he considered, just for a moment, arguing the point further. Then he thought of Mister Dillon. No, he quickly decided, Luke was right--he was better off sticking close to the Marshal.

"Well, are you gonna tell Matt?" Kitty now wanted to know. If truth be told, she wasn't so sure whether she wanted him to find out. Knowing Matt as she did, she was afraid that he would try to do something that he was in no shape doing.

Luke could tell what was on her mind; he had been thinking along those lines as well. Looking at Matt Dillon was very much like looking into a mirror and seeing himself twenty years ago. It made the young lawman quite predictable.

But be it as it may, the Marshal needed to be aware of this new development. Luke sighed inwardly. His face set determined, he nodded at last.

"Yeah...yeah, I think he needs to know about this, Kitty."

As worried as she was--Kitty understood the reasoning behind Luke's words.

Chester cast her a sympathetic look.

"I go an' let Mister Dillon know," he volunteered helpfully, knowing that it would be easier if he was the one telling him.

"All right you do that," answered Luke agreeably, "I don't know when I'll be back--make sure all of you keep your eyes open." He didn't like the idea of going off and leaving, but then and there, he didn't see any other option. It was a clue that needed to be pursued and investigated. Maybe the spot where the horse had been found would yield any information in regards to the severity of Biggs' injury or, even better--his whereabouts.

Chester looked fiercely determined.

"Well, you better believe it, don't you worry none about that."

The corners of Luke's mouth turned in a tight smile beneath the bushy mustache.

"I won't worry, Chester." He adjusted the old slouch hat on his head, tugging the brim lower over his brow against the glare of sunlight. He reached for his rifle that was leaning up against the porch rail.

"Well, so long then."

With a nod at Kitty, he started down the small flight of stairs, Chester following him down to retrieve his own rifle from his saddle.

Kitty stepped up to the edge of the porch. Folding her fingers over the top rail, she watched the ex-Sheriff cross the sunny yard with quick strides as he headed for the barn. Not for the first time wished she that they could move Matt back to Dodge. Somehow she felt that he would be a lot safer there.

_x_

Warm, late afternoon sunlight slanted brightly through the open double doors into the barn and many cracks in the rough wall boards, creating an oyster-pale haze in the darker interior. Revealed by the light, flecks of dust danced in the air, shimmering like a million tiny jewels. Dan Biggs' big roan was the only animal left inside. The Marshal's buckskin, as well as Luke's own team, while not in use, had been turned out to pasture.

Retrieving the heavy, tooled-leather saddle from the stall divider, Luke hefted it easily onto the roan's back. After adjusting it carefully over the saddle blanket to avoid any bunching, he then stooped to reach under and pull up the cinch.

The broad-shouldered, sturdy-legged animal was a fine horse with a well-shaped head and intelligent eyes, and in the few days Luke had been using the gelding, he had grown quite fond of him.

With a final tug, he pulled the cinch strap tight and then looped it through the saddle ring to tie it down.

He pulled the stirrup down and slipped his big rifle into the scabbard.

"Well, old boy, maybe we'll find us your owner today," he told the horse, unaware that his every word was being overheard from nearby.

He gave the gelding's neck a pat and then took hold of the reins to lead him from the barn.

A short moment later the rhythmic clomping of the animal's shod hooves could be heard as the ex-lawman cantered from the yard.

Only then did he move.

Bits of straw and dust trickled through the wide gaps in the rough plank floor of the barn loft, dropping undetected to the ground below as he carefully scooted back from the edge. Straw was rustling softly beneath his hands and knees but it went unheard.

When he was sure that he had retreated deep enough into the concealing shadows of the hayloft, he sat back. Reaching into a pile of straw, he groped for the water canteen and the last of the jerky and hard tack he had managed to sneak from his own saddle bags three nights ago.

Dan Biggs chuckled to himself.

Everybody had expected him to be long gone by now where in truth, he had been hiding out right under their noses all along.

Using his yellowed teeth, he bit down onto the cork stopper. Yanking it from the opening, he carelessly spit it in his lap and brought the canteen to his lips to take a pull of the stale-tasting, tepid water. It was almost gone, but he didn't care--soon, after he had dealt with Dillon, he would see to his needs; right now they came in only second.

He twisted a little to glance down at his right side. The shirt was stiff with dried blood and plastered to his body. The wound--although it had stopped bleeding--was stinging sharply with every movement, but he barely noticed it. His mind was focused on one thing only--Matt Dillon.

His patience had paid off. The posse was gone, had given up. This pesky Crandall was out on yet another pointless search. That only left the cripple, the two women, those kids and, most importantly--Dillon.

His face darkened again at the thought of the lawman. He clenched one huge hand into a fist, smashing it angrily into the open palm of the other.

_Damn Dillon. Damn him to hell._

It was all his fault. His fault that his brother was dead, his fault that both of his men were dead, and, to make matters worse, that damn Marshal had managed to survive, depriving him of his revenge.

_Not for long_, Biggs, thought grimly to himself, this time, he would make sure that Dillon got what he had coming to him. He would make him pay good, one bullet at a time.

His hand slipped the converted colt .44 from the holster. An ugly grin spread across his face as he hefted the steel-gray weapon in his palm. Not a bad gun, he thought. Some capable gunsmith had gone through the trouble of converting the 1860 model colt from percussion to cartridge fire by cutting off the rear end of the cylinder and replacing it with a breech block containing a loading gate and rebounding fire pin. It was his now, since its previous owner, who was lying with his head smashed in somewhere halfway between Dodge and Cross Creek, obviously didn't have any more use for it. He slid the gun back into the holster and the grin disappeared, his disfigured features hardening.

"Time to get even, Dillon," he hissed through tobacco-stained teeth as he clambered to his feet.

_x_

Tag was a wonderful game. The rules were simple and all it took was two willing participants. Like countless generations of children before them, Rory and Carrie engaged often in the timeless fun. The Crandall's once quiet farm yard was now alive with the laughter and giggles of the two children as they happily chased each other around cottonwoods, barrels and other various objects that occupied the yard.

Presently, it was Carrie's turn to catch her older brother. As young as she was, she was still easily distracted and apt to forget the game in favor of chasing butterflies or examining the odd flower. But Rory had quickly learned to compensate for her short attention span by sticking close to her, allowing her to almost catch up with him and then elude her at the last second. This practice not only focused her attention, but he found that it also added to the fun.

"Come on an' catch me, Carrie!" he giggled delightedly as the little girl was advancing on him yet again with outstretched arms.

Their happy game took them all over the yard, and eventually, close to the barn.

With Carrie close in pursuit, Rory quickly rounded the corner of the big wooden structure only to find himself suddenly at the front of it.

The half-open door beckoned. With his little sister nearing, his mind was made up quickly.

In an instant, he had slipped into the dim shadows of the barn. Right away, the fragrant scent of recently cut hay, mingled with the sharper odor of manure greeted him as he soundlessly pulled the door shut behind himself.

For a moment he stood quietly in the cool, semi-darkness, his ears tuned in to the soft patter of Carrie's footsteps outside beyond the door. A giggle was building inside his throat as he heard her calling his name. Quickly, he clapped his hand over his mouth to muffle it.

Then, suddenly, straw rustled somewhere deep in the murky depths of the barn. Confused, Rory turned, the game and his little sister momentarily forgotten. He opened his eyes wide, trying to see what had made the noise.

Slowly, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark Rory saw the darkness fade to gray and a strange form started to take shape before him.

Immediately, the smile faded from the little boy's face.

Terrified, he attempted to twirl back around--but he was too slow; before he could do anything about it, a strong hand locked tightly around his arm. He struggled and kicked but the man just laughed wickedly.

"Well, well, if that ain't a surprise," sneered Biggs as he brutally jerked the boy to within inches of his face, staring at him through feral bloodshot eyes, "bet you didn't expect to see me again--"

A soft scraping sound drew Biggs' attention abruptly back to the door. Carrie's expectant giggles sounded from beyond.

With horror, Rory suddenly remembered his little sister. He opened his mouth to yell a warning, but a huge hand quickly clamped down over his nose and mouth, muting his words to nothing more but a muffled yelp.

Biggs glowered beneath black brows.

"Shut up!" he hissed angrily, his lips close to the frantically squirming boy's ear.

At that moment, a big rectangle of yellow light appeared on the barn floor as the door was slowly pulled open.

Rory's tried dragging air into his lungs, but couldn't. His eyes widened with panic as he continued to struggle in mute desperation against the strong hand that was preventing him from breathing.

"Wowy?" the little girl queried hesitantly as she slowly inched her way inside.

It was dark, darker than she would have liked. Automatically, she clutched the doll tighter to her chest as she took another tentative step forward. Straw was crunching softly beneath her bare feet, tickling the tender soles with every step, but she was too focused on her surroundings to notice.

When Biggs realized that it was only the child, he relaxed somewhat and his hand loosened just a little.

No longer kicking and struggling, it was all Rory could do to do drag a meager breath into his burning lungs. There was no fight left in him. He had become like a ragdoll in the big man's arms. Bright spots were dancing in front of his vision and his head was reeling from the lack of oxygen.

As her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light inside the barn, Carrie suddenly became aware of Biggs' looming presence, still holding her brother fast in his grasp. It was too much for her young mind to comprehend.

"Wowy?" she asked again, uncertain. _What was that big man doing with her brother? Didn't he know that they were playing a game? Was he maybe playing, too?_

Biggs scowled at the sight of her. He didn't care much for children, never had. Besides, he already had a hostage and didn't need another to bother with.

"Shoo...run along little runt!" he growled, waving her off with his hand.

The rough tone of his voice was easy enough for Carrie to understand.

Her dimpled face scrunched up. Her bottom lip pushed out and began to quiver.

Biggs stomped his foot impatiently.

"Shoo, li'l brat!" he hissed again.

The rag doll fell to the floor and a frightened wail erupted from the little girl's throat as she turned and fled from the barn as fast as her small feet could carry her.

Back inside the house, a dish towel tucked into the waistband of her skirt and her sleeves rolled up, Millie Crandall was absorbed in the task of forming dough into biscuits and then carefully placing them in the already heated dutch oven sitting on the stove top. Surprised, she raised her head upon overhearing Carrie's wails of distress.

"Oh, my gracious," she exclaimed with mild exasperation, "I wonder what those two are up to now--"

Over at the table, busy peeling potatoes for supper, Kitty lifted her gaze and shrugged.

"Well, they were laughing just a minute ago," she replied a little puzzled, "I wonder what happened--"

Millie set the wad of dough down and wiped her hands on her apron.

"Well, I better go and see about it," she said with a gusty sigh, "that little rascal's probably caught himself another frog--he knows that Carrie's terrified of those critters."

Kitty smiled at the older woman from across the room.

"Yes, maybe you better--"

Millie smoothed out her skirts and moved for the door.

Kitty's eyes followed the other woman, watching as the door swung shut behind her with a soft click.

_Millie certainly had her work cut out for herself,_ Kitty thought with an amused shake of her head. She found herself wondering how she would fare if put into that kind of situation. Somehow, she could picture herself nicely with Matt and a house full of children.

Setting the peeled potato down onto the table, her gaze wandered to the bedroom door from where the muffled voices of Matt and Chester were floating to her ear. Although she couldn't make out exactly what they where saying, she could hear the rumble of Matt's deep and pleasant baritone as he responded to something Chester had said.

Kitty smiled to herself, happy with the fact that the lawman seemed to have taken the news with stride and hadn't attempted anything foolish like trying to get out of bed and join Luke in the search for Biggs.

Suddenly, she was unceremoniously roused from her reverie by Millie's terrified outcry.

It was followed seconds later by another shout that made her blood run cold and caused her to drop the knife.

It was a man's voice--a voice she had hoped never having to hear again as long as she lived.

"DILLON! I'M BACK FOR YOU!"

_to be continued..._


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-three**

_x_

Hastily, Kitty pushed the lace curtain aside to look out the window. What she saw made her gasp.

"Oh, no--" she murmured without realizing it as she clapped a hand over her mouth. She could see Millie standing at the foot of the porch stairs, a distraught Carrie in her arms--but it was the figure that was standing inside the open door of the barn that made her heart skip a beat.

It was Dan Biggs.

And that wasn't the worst of it--little Rory Crandall was hanging limply in his grasp, the barrel end of a colt dug into his scalp just behind his ear.

A sudden weakness dragged at her, her heart suddenly pumping in rapid, heavy beats. She was faintly aware of the bedroom door being flung open and the rushed, uneven strike of booted feet against the floor boards.

Seconds later, Chester came up alongside her, quickly taking in the entire disturbing scene with one hasty glance through the dust-streaked window panes. His jaw dropped.

"Oh, my goodness," he murmured horrified.

The two exchanged a helpless glance, neither one able to speak. Then he swung back around and vaulted back towards the bedroom as fast as his stiff right leg allowed.

"Mister Dillon! Mister Dillon!" he gasped as he cleared the threshold at such speed that he almost collided with Matt's bed. "It's him all right!" One hand flung out in the direction of the doorway, he used the other to steady himself against the cast-iron footboard. "It's that Biggs-fella! An' that ain't all--he's got the boy!"

His panicked eyes met the Marshal's.

"Oh, what're we gonna do?" he fretted as he agitatedly raked a hand through his hair.

Matt's eyes narrowed as he took in what Chester had just said. But before he had a chance to respond, Biggs' rasping voice suddenly thundered loudly across the yard.

"DILLON! I WANT EV'RYBODY OUT HERE, INCLUDIN' YOU, AN' NO TRICKS OR THE PUP'S GONNA DIE! YOU UNDERSTAND?"

The sound sent a chill down Matt's spine. Unbidden images of how the outlaw had shot him in cold blood suddenly sprang up in his mind. With effort, he forced the disturbing picture aside, concentrating his thoughts on how to best deal with the situation. He knew that Biggs wouldn't hesitate to make true on his word and kill the boy. That, and the fact that there were more innocent lives present that the outlaw posed a danger to, left very little room for options.

Matt eased himself up higher against the headboard. He shifted his gaze back to his assistant, and inevitably to Kitty who had come up behind the young man, her features pale and drawn. He looked from face to face--they were both watching him, waiting to see what he was going to do. Matt already knew she wasn't going to like very much what he had in mind and he suddenly wished she was back in Dodge.

He drew a deep breath and glanced towards Chester again, purposely avoiding her eyes.

"Where's he at, Chester?" he wanted to know.

"Well, he's a-standin' outside the barn, right in front of them doors," the jailer answered, pointing with his hand into the direction of the doorway.

Matt chewed at his lips and nodded slowly. He knew what he had to do. His face hardened with resolve.

"Chester," he said.

"Yes, Mister Dillon?"

"I want you to go out there an' see if you can talk to him, tell him I'll need some time."

Chester started to acknowledge him, but then he suddenly froze as it began to dawn on him what the Marshal was implying. His face fell.

"T--time," he sputtered taken aback, "wh--what do you mean? You ain't fixin' to go out there, ain't you?"

"Matt, you can't do that," Kitty protested at once. She stepped up to the footboard, her fingers curling around the top rail, "you're too sick--"

But Matt's features remained unyielding, his eyes determined in his sweat-sheened face. He understood how she felt, but an argument with her was the last thing he needed right now. A life was at stake, a young and innocent life, and he couldn't--wouldn't take any chances with it.

"Chester," he said, making a clipped motion with his head towards the doorway, "go and take Kitty with you."

The young jailer looked less than pleased.

"Mister Dillon, you sure that's--" he began to object, but the Marshal cut him off before he had a chance to finish his sentence.

"Do it, Chester."

Chester swallowed hard, torn between loyalty and obedience to the man that he looked up to and a deep concern for his safety.

"Yes, sir," he muttered finally as obedience gained the upper hand. His troubled brown eyes flicked from the lawman to the pretty redhead beside him who was staring at the lawman with utter disapproval.

"Come on, Miss Kitty," he said quietly, looking and sounding just as anxious and miserable as she did. Gently taking hold of her elbow, he began to steer her towards the doorway.

For the moment, Kitty was too stunned to object. Following Chester's lead, she took two despondent steps and then abruptly stopped and turned. Her pretty face was white and strained, her eyes now dark with fear.

"Matt, please don't do this," she tried again desperately, "you know he's gonna kill you if you go out there."

Their gazes locked across the room and the pain and anguish he saw reflected in the depths of her blue eyes stabbed him to the very soul. For one long second, Matt hated himself for having to do this to her, for having to cause her such pain, but then his thoughts turned to the little boy whose life depended on him. Four and a half years ago, he had pledged to uphold the law, to serve and protect--with his life if necessary. His life didn't belong to him anymore, it belonged first and foremost to the people that needed him, relied upon him. He was a man with obligations. He couldn't allow himself to be selfish, let his love for Kitty or the nagging fear he couldn't help but feel prevent him from doing his duty.

His face set into hard lines of determination in an effort to keep it from revealing the anxiety that lurked so close beneath its surface, just waiting to rise and give him away.

He nodded at her once.

"Go on."

The finality in his curt demand was such that brooked no argument and not even Kitty dared to question it. For another second she continued to gaze into his eyes, right past the carefully erected guard. She could plainly see the uncertainty that he was so hard trying to hide from her.

Her words of pleading, of frustration, of love, went unspoken. She knew that Matt had already heard them in his heart. This time, she didn't object as Chester's gentle hand touched her elbow, and she allowed him to usher her from the room.

The moment the door closed with a soft click, Matt expelled the tense breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He shoved the quilt aside. The bedsprings squeaked as he gingerly swung his legs over the side of the bed to plant his bare feet on the cool surface of the plank floor. For a moment, he simply sat, his good elbow resting on his knee, his head hung as he waited for the room to stop spinning.

Then he reached for his pants.

Putting them on, however, was harder than he had imagined; his fingers felt like putty as he one-handedly struggled to put buttons through holes and lace the leather strap of his belt through the buckle to catch the prong.

A bird was singing in the big cottonwood right outside his window and the leaves rustled softly, stirred by a mild summer breeze. Muffled bits and pieces of the conversation between Biggs and Chester drifted through the open panes.

"--hurt...doin' the best he can--"

"--don't give a damn if he's hurt...want him out here now!"

It was apparent from what Matt could hear that Biggs was in a rather agitated state of mind. There was no doubt in his mind that the outlaw wouldn't hesitate to kill the boy if he felt that he was being tricked. The realization only spurred him on to greater hurry.

He began to awkwardly fumble with his stiff leather boots and succeeded in pulling them on fairly quickly, considering the fact that he only had the use of his right hand.

Still, the ordinarily simple task of dressing himself was already taking its toll on his weakened body. Thick, glistening beads of sweat stippled his brow, tracking down the sides of his face in thin rivulets as he straightened back up. He ran a shaky hand across his face to wipe them away and then reached for his shirt. His fingers dug into the coarse, homespun fabric of the faded, oatmeal-colored garment that Chester had brought back with him from Dodge the other day, drawing it into his lap.

He realized quickly that this wasn't going to be easy.

"--you...not...tryin'...trick me..." A broken shred of Biggs' warning carried to his ear, urging him on.

Matt gulped in a lungful warm, stale air to brace himself against the pain he was certain he was about to experience. Then he carefully removed his left arm from the sling, temporarily straightening it so he could slide it into the shirt sleeve.

An immediate sharp, stinging pain in his shoulder wound was the reward for his action, forcing him to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep from crying out. Keeping his teeth clamped down on his lip, he managed to resettle the arm in the sling and draw the shirt across his back to finish putting it on. The brief ordeal left him winded and panting for breath and he didn't bother with buttoning the garment up, leaving it untucked and hanging loosely over his belt.

Slowly, unsteadily, he struggled to his feet, trying not grimace at the agony that at once knifed through his shoulder again. He suddenly felt light-headed and slightly nauseous, and he realized that standing upright proved even more difficult that he had thought. His legs felt wobbly, his knees wanted to buckle. A shaky hand groped for the cool metal of the cast-iron headboard, clutching it for support, and for a second, he stood very still as wave after wave of weakness drifted over him.

_Damn it_, he cursed himself, angry at the fact that he seemed to have so little control over his own body, _pull yourself together, Dillon_.

He dragged an uneven breath into his lungs and raised his head to focus his slightly blurry vision on the door, quickly calculating the distance. The fuzzy image of the dark rectangle, set off against the lighter wall, seemed a mile away where in reality he knew that it was no more than a few paces.

Matt blinked and shook his head, desperately trying to clear it. If he was to stand any kind of a chance against Biggs, he needed his wits about him.

He forced his fingers to unclench from the headboard and reached down to slip the colt from its holster. Propping the weapon against his belly, he one-handedly managed to slide back the loading gate to assure himself that all six chambers were loaded.

Satisfied, he restored the gun to the holster and lifted the heavy leather rig from the bedpost. He slung it over his shoulder, knowing that he would need help putting it on.

Suddenly, Biggs' voice rose above the yard again, this time addressing the Marshal directly.

"DILLON, BETTER GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE, I AIN'T GOT MUCH PATIENCE LEFT!"

The sound of the outlaw's agitated voice heightened Matt's fear for the boy's life apace. There was no more time to lose, he had to get out there as quickly as possible.

Luckily, the worst of his weakness had passed by now. His hand let go of the bedpost and he breathed heavily several times before taking a first, cautious step. The leather soles of his boots scraped across the floor boards as he struggled to muster up the strength to lift feet that seemed weighted with lead. Doggedly determined, he took one unsteady step after the other, slowly closing the short distance between himself and the door.

Almost. The dark rectangle of the door beckoned from only a few feet away. One more step and his sweaty palm finally closed over the door knob like a drowning man's hand clutched for the life-saving rope.

Kitty turned away from the window and the frightening scene that was unfolding out in the yard when she heard the bedroom door swing open with a soft squeak of the hinges. Her face, already drained of most color, paled even more at the sight of him, and her hand flew to her mouth when she noticed the crimson stain that was blossoming brightly on his shirt at the left shoulder.

There was no doubt in her mind that he was in no condition to take on Biggs.

His good arm braced heavily against the door jamb, Matt fought to ignore the obvious signals his overwhelmed body was giving him. He felt fatigued and faint. His shoulder throbbed with pain, a needling sensation that had him grit his teeth to force it silent. His breathing was coming ragged and fast. Already, the shirt clung to his back, sticky and damp with sweat, and he was remotely aware of the warm and tacky moistness that was soaking the gauze covering his injury.

Kitty hurried to his side. As much as she was afraid for Rory, right now, she couldn't help feel even more afraid for the man she loved and her earlier resolve not to plead with him again suddenly vanished.

"Don't do this, Matt, please," she implored, "you're in no shape to go out there--"

She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Her trembling hand closed over his forearm to silently enforce her desperate plea.

Matt kept this gaze on the floor, finding it difficult to look her in the face. She was right--he was in no shape, but he had no other choice.

"I have to," he said quietly.

His words, simple as they had been, had been spoken with deep conviction, a fact that wasn't lost on Kitty. She suddenly felt as if all the steam had been let out of her.

Her hold on his arm slackened as he finally lifted his gaze to meet her eyes squarely. In the slightly hazy light of the room, Kitty saw the unwavering resolve reflected in the depths of them but there was also something else in there, something that he was unable to hide from her. It was a palpable touch of fear. She instinctively knew that it wasn't just fear for Rory's life.

Matt was fully aware of her probing gaze.

"Look, I don't have a choice," he said heavily, "I can't take a chance on him hurtin' the boy."

But Kitty wasn't ready to accept that just yet.

"There has to be another way," she insisted desperately. _Had they fought for his life and nursed him back to health only to have Biggs kill him now after all_?

At her words, Matt shook his head slowly. His voice, as he spoke was soft yet firm, laced with resignation.

"There's no other way, Kitty."

At that moment, it became painfully clear to her that he was speaking the truth. She caught her bottom lip with her teeth in silent anguish as her hand slipped from his arm.

For another moment, he stood in silence, staring down at her from his much greater height, not knowing what else to say. Warm afternoon sunlight slanted through the lace curtains of the window, giving the room a slightly hazy appearance. Looking at her with the sun shimmering in her red hair, he felt a well-remembered burgeoning in his chest, a feeling of love, of possession and of pride. She was a beautiful woman, a fine woman. She was _his_ woman. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, what she meant to him, but somehow, he found himself unable to.

Abruptly, he straightened away from the door frame and pulled the gunbelt from his good shoulder, holding it out to her.

"You mind givin' me a hand with this?" he wondered, indicating the holster with his head.

Without a word, she took the gunbelt from him and wrapped it around his waist, holding it in place for him so that he could fasten the buckle.

When Matt was finished, he brought his good hand to rest on her shoulder.

"Thanks, Kitty," he murmured quietly.

She didn't answer, didn't even look up. All she could do was turn aside helplessly and close her eyes as she felt warm tears slowly running down her cheeks.

Outside, Biggs had apparently exhausted the last of his patience.

"DILLON! YOUR TIME'S UP!" his belligerent voice boomed across the yard again.

Matt's jaw clenched. He drew a deep breath. The expansion of his lungs sent another sharp stab of pain racing through his shoulder and down his back, but this time, he barely took notice of it. He dragged an unsteady hand over the back of his neck, wiping up sweat. Then he squared himself.

Kitty could see the knotted muscles at the hinge of his jaw. She knew that there was nothing more that she could say or do to make a difference. Silently, she moved aside, watching as he stumbled past her towards the front door. His steps were unsteady, uneven and she could see the effort it afforded him to walk.

"Matt."

He could feel her eyes on his back and hesitated. His hand paused on the door knob, the metal cool and smooth beneath his sweaty fingers.

Kitty came up behind him and reached out to put her hand on his forearm.

Her touch felt warm through the coarse fabric of his shirt sleeve, but Matt could also feel that she was trembling.

He swallowed hard. He wanted to tell her that everything was going to be all right, but he knew that he couldn't make such promise, so he remained silent. There was nothing to say, nothing anyone could do. He had to go out there and face Biggs no matter what the outcome.

He drew another long, deep breath and straightened. The ever-so faint look of reluctance was gone from his face, replaced by grim determination as his fingers turned the door knob with one swift motion. The door swung open with a harsh creak and Matt walked out into the world for the first time in over a week to face the man that wanted nothing more than see him dead.

The afternoon sunlight was as bright as any he could ever remember seeing. It glanced off the roofs of the barn and the other outbuildings. It shone through the leaves of the great cottonwood tree that stood off to his left, turning them to translucent gold. It shone brilliantly on the hard-packed dirt of the yard, dazzling him with its whiteness. Matt's eyes began to smart and he squeezed them into small slits until they could adjust.

His gaze skimmed across the yard. A single sweeping glance was enough for him to see everything there was to see: Millie, with Carrie in her arm, was standing a little off to the left side of the porch with Chester. The outlaw, silhouetted against the sunlight with the brightness spilling over his shoulders was instantly recognizable; he was standing a good twenty-five yards away, in front of the barn. The gun in his right was pointed at Rory's head who was hanging limply in Biggs' brutal grasp.

Matt swallowed, his throat tightening at the sight. His heart thrummed in his chest. His stomach was tight, felt weighted with lead.

Slowly, unevenly, he began to descend the porch steps, one at a time, holding on to the post for support. At his approach, the tabby cat wisely leapt from the step where she had been sitting, licking her paws and retired hastily around the side of the house.

"Lookin' good, Dillon!" He heard Biggs snicker across the yard. "Remember what I promised you? One bullet at a time. You got the first one, now it's time for you to get the rest!"

His chest heaving with heavy breaths, it took Matt a moment to collect himself as his feet moments later finally touched solid ground. His voice, as he spoke, sounded strained, holding distinct traces of the effort it had cost him to drag himself from his bed and out into the yard.

"Let the boy go, Biggs, this is between you an' me."

The outlaw's lip curled in a derisive sneer to reveal his discolored teeth.

"How's that shoulder, Dillon? Still hurtin' you?" he snickered, ignoring Matt's demand, "How'd you like another bullet in it? I reckon that would hurt somethin' fierce--"

Matt didn't respond, refusing to play Biggs' game any more than necessary, but for the briefest of seconds, a shadow of fear flickered on his face as unbidden memories of his ordeal once again flashed though his mind.

Biggs instantly recognized it for what it was and grinned wolfishly.

"Time to finish our li'l game, Dillon," he hissed.

Matt breathed in carefully. There was a buzzing in his head and his legs felt weak. Sweat was uncomfortably trickling off his brow, running down the sides of his face to soak into the collar of his shirt.

"Let him go, Biggs."

His voice was flat, the tension inside him under iron control as he began to stumble forward. He took a wobbly step, then another. The sound of the dirt crunching beneath his boots as they dragged across the earth was loud in his own ears.

The outlaw snorted.

"How about I put a couple o' bullets in your knees first, Dillon? What d'you think of that?" he said, ignoring Matt's demand.

Matt stopped short, still a good fifteen yards from the barn. He jerked his head at the limp body of little Rory.

"The boy. Let him go."

Now Biggs' face darkened, angry that his taunts hadn't elicited the desired response. He glared at Matt, who was swaying slightly, with a look less than contempt.

"Seems to me you ain't in the position to make any demands here, Marshal," he hissed angrily.

Matt felt a slow trickle of sweat trace a path down his spine, but he suppressed the awareness of his discomfort. His world was now centered on only one man, everything else vanished from his thoughts.

"You always hide behind others like a coward, Biggs?" he wondered with deliberate provocation, "aren't you man enough to face me by yourself?"

He knew good and well that he was provoking the outlaw, but that was exactly his intention; if he could get Biggs to move the gun away from Rory's head and take a shot at him, he figured he could at least get one shot in of his own--and he would make sure to make it count.

The challenge was exactly perceived as such and the sneer on Biggs' face instantly slipped into a snarl. His charcoal eyes darted to the Marshal's colt as if now noticing it for the first time.

"Don't you call me a coward, Dillon!" he shouted agitatedly. His black eyes were blazing with fury, his disfigured features contorted into a grotesque mask. "Now throw that damn gun down, or I swear I'm gonna kill the kid!"

To make his point, he shook the terrified boy as if he was nothing more but a rag. The colt in his other hand moved slightly so that the sunlight flashed off the metal.

Matt's eyes narrowed. His voice, despite the state he was in, was firm and low with a deadly edge to it as he spoke.

"Biggs, you hurt that boy, I swear so help me, I'm gonna kill you, if it's the last thing I do--"

For the first time, there was a flicker of uncertainty in the outlaw's eyes as he realized his dilemma. He couldn't shoot both at the same time. The gun in his hand wavered ever so slightly as he was torn between shooting the boy and risking to be shot by Dillon in return, and forgetting about the boy and putting a well-aimed bullet into the lawman instead.

Matt's intent gaze was focused on the outlaw's eyes, waiting for that infinitesimal flicker that would give away Biggs' intentions. He knew he was taking a risk, but he was counting on the other's fierce determination to see him dead to come through.

Across the distance, the two men locked eyes.

Matt stood, legs slightly apart, carefully flexing the fingers of his right. He wished, his left arm wasn't strapped to his chest; it made him feel unbalanced. He could feel the rapid swell of his heart, the heightened flush of breath in his lungs. A trickle of sweat seeped from beneath the hair at the base of his neck and slid on his shoulder. A barrage of images hurled through his mind in the matter of seconds--Kitty, Doc, Carrie, the Crandall's.

He heard the shrill caw of a black crow somewhere off in the distance and then his concentration funneled into razor-edged sharpness.

Time slowed, stretching to the breaking point, every second turning into an agonizing length of time. Matt felt his heart hammering against the inside of his rip cage, heard the soft hiss of his own breath as he waited for the outlaw to make his move.

"All right," Biggs suddenly spat with frightening finality, "if that's how you want it--"

But what happened next, was something that neither man had counted on.

_to be continued..._


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

_x_

"THROW THAT GUN DOWN, BIGGS AN' DON'T MAKE A WRONG MOVE, I GOT YOU COVERED!"

The stock of his big Swiss rifle pressed firmly against the side of his face, Luke kept the muzzle trained squarely at the outlaw's back as he stepped out from behind the cover of a small collection of cottonwoods a good thirty yards up the incline.

Some people called it intuition, others 'sixth sense'. He'd never been exactly sure what to call it. All Luke Crandall knew was that he had learned to trust and rely upon it a long time ago, and once again, it hadn't disappointed him.

About twenty minutes into his ride to the Parker's place, he had suddenly felt it--the tell tale prickling sensation at the base of his neck that made the fine hairs there stand on end. It had been stronger than ever before and he had known at once that he had made a mistake by leaving his farm. Without a second thought, Luke had yielded to it. Turning the roan back around, he had kicked him into a careless gallop, back down the trail he had come from.

It had only taken him half the time to cross the ridge to Cross Creek--but instead of continuing straight down, he had dismounted and led the gelding out of sight into the cottonwood thicket that surrounded his homestead. Leaving him tied up amongst the trees, he had slipped the rifle from the scabbard and had followed a vague rabbit path that wound its way through the thicket. He had known that the path came out close beside the barn and had figured that if he kept low and moved quietly, the shrub growth would give him cover every inch of the way.

As he had moved along, the powerful feeling that something wasn't right had gotten stronger with each passing second. It had only urged him on to greater hurry.

After a few minutes, the trees had opened up to a first view of the back of the barn. Luke had quickly found his unease justified as his eyes had scanned the sunwashed brightness of his yard below. There, standing right in the middle of it, had been Matt Dillon, all six feet and a half of him, confronting a man he had no trouble recognizing even though he had his back turned on him.

It was--Dan Biggs.

But what had made the matter even worse was the small limp form of a child that the outlaw was holding firmly against his chest, a gun to his head.

Rory--his nephew.

At the sight, the seasoned ex-Sheriff had felt a sudden lurch in the pit of his stomach. His fingers had clenched around the sun-warmed, smooth metal of his rifle. In all his years as a lawman, it was the one thing he had never faced before--seeing a loved one's life in mortal danger.

He knew better than to shoot any man in the back--but he had to admit that at this very moment, he wouldn't have had too much of a problem with it. The sight of the little boy hanging limply in the outlaw's grasp, had stirred feelings of the worst kind inside of him. They were feelings, so strong--that if he hadn't learned to control them early on, they probably would have ended his career as a lawman a long time ago.

Luke had drawn a deep,calming breath, swallowing to free the lump that had suddenly formed inside his throat. Then he had brought his rifle up and stepped out from behind the concealing shrubs to announce his presence.

At his shout of warning, Matt's eyes darted up the slope in surprise. The sight that greeted him brought an influx of relief rushing along every nerve ending, not already chafed raw.

For one long, never-ending moment everyone stood still--everyone, including Dan Biggs.

It was as if the world held its breath. Even the birds had ceased their song as the ex-lawman began to slowly move down the slope, the scuffing and grating of his boots against the hard-packed earth the only sounds that could be heard.

His eyes, steel-gray and hard were focused on the outlaw's back, the fiery intensity of his gaze as unwavering as his gun.

When he was still a good twenty yards away, Luke stopped. From the corner of his eye, he quickly noted the position of his wife, Kitty and Chester. He felt a vague sort of relief when he saw they had remained close to the house where they would be less of a target for Biggs.

Luke took a steadying breath and then carefully adjusted his aim. He wanted to make sure, that if it came down to it, his bullet would hit the outlaw as far away from the boy as possible.

"I said for you to throw that gun down, Biggs," he repeated in a voice that allowed for no contradiction. He stood rigidly, unmoving, the rifle leveled. But despite his calm demeanor, there was a cold lacing of sweat on his brow, testament to his fear for Rory's life.

Below, Matt was the first one to recover, quickly adjusting to the new situation. Across the distance, he threw a quick glance past the outlaw to where the ex-lawman had positioned himself. He could see that his face was tight, without expression of any kind--a mask of rigidly held determination.

Luke Crandall was definitely a force to be reckoned with, Matt realized with a hint of admiration--a man whose edge and strength remained undiminished by the years.

His eyes tracked back to Biggs, settling on the outlaw's face.

"You heard him, Biggs," he said, hoping his voice didn't come across as bad as he felt, "put your gun down an' let the boy go. You ain't got a chance against the two of us."

There was no response.

Matt could feel the tension crackling through the air like heat lightning on a summer night.

The sound of Biggs' heavy breathing, out and in while he assimilated what Matt had said, could be heard clearly in the eerie stillness that seemed to have enveloped the yard like the enfolding whisps of an early morning fog.

"Forget it!" the outlaw ground out furiously at last, slinging Rory back and forth so that his bare feet stirred up dust, "I'm gonna kill you, Dillon! I'm gonna kill the boy here first an' then I'm gonna kill you!"

His thumb pulled the hammer of the colt all the way back, and the loud double click added its own emphasis.

The threat elicited a strangled sob from Millie Crandall, and across the distance, Matt saw Luke's face twitch visibly upon hearing it.

His eyes switched back to Biggs. He could sense the other's nervousness, sweat-slick and skittish like a panicked horse. The outlaw was behaving exactly as Matt had anticipated; the fact that he was still talking, threatening, confirmed his belief that Biggs knew good and well that he wouldn't have the chance to shoot him and the boy. What it now came down to was the question which one was more important to him. Matt was confident that he knew.

He met the other's angry gaze coolly, levelly from across the short distance.

"You can't kill all three of us, Biggs, you know that," he said in measured tones, stating the obvious, "you harm that boy, I promise you, you won't walk outta here alive."

Bigg's shifted and licked his lips. He was thinking fast. He was thinking hard. The truth of Dillon's words suddenly struck him--it was true, he most likely wouldn't be able to kill both, the kid and Dillon, especially not now with that damn Crandall-fella's gun at his back.

_No, the boy didn't really matter--it was Dillon that did._

His features grew taut the instant he made his decision.

The expression on the other's face wasn't lost on Matt. Instinctively, he tensed, all of his attention now focused on the colt in Biggs' hand.

Sweat seeped uncomfortably from beneath his hair line, trickling into his eyebrows and over the upper part of his cheeks. One salty drop ran into his mouth, but Matt barely noticed it--he was too centered on the man before him, knowing that he was fast approaching his breaking point.

"Well? What'll it be?" he prompted, pushing the outlaw just a little further.

The look in Biggs' eyes was that of a caged animal, his anger by now having reached lethal proportions.

Matt's eyes narrowed, trying his best to block out the disturbing glare of the sun as he watched and waited for that first, barely perceptible indication that the outlaw would turn the gun on him.

Time, in the sunlit yard, stood still.

The air was crackling with tension as the two men eyed each other across the distance--a distance too close for either one to miss.

Then, suddenly, the moment was there.

With an enraged scream--an animal cry too angry for words, Biggs suddenly released his hold on the startled boy, roughly throwing him aside, at the same time swinging his gun around on Matt.

Blued steel flashed in the sunlight.

"DAMN YOU, DILLON!" he screamed his anger and frustration as his finger squeezed the trigger.

With speed that was as much fluid motion as it was instinct, Matt wrenched the colt from his holster. His fingers convulsed on the trigger even as he leveled the weapon for aim.

The crackling explosion of Biggs' gun was almost instantly followed by the sharp report of the Marshal's colt.

But he had been a fraction too slow; Matt felt the sudden, hot sting as the outlaw's bullet grazed his wrist. His hand jerked, but he managed to hold on to his gun.

He might not have been fast enough, but his aim had been a lot more accurate than the outlaw's.

Biggs' eyes suddenly widened with surprise. His left hand clasped at his stomach as he staggered back with a startled grunt as though he'd been struck across the chest by a club. His gaze dropped to the bright red flower that blossomed under his splayed fingers, marring the once-white fabric of his filthy shirt. Shockingly red, the blood began to quickly spill out between his fingers and over his hand, dripping down onto the dusty ground.

Slowly, in tiny, jerking movements, he raised his face again. His features were twisted with rage, beetle-black eyes, already glazed over by impending death, staring at the Marshal with undiminished hatred.

With sheer effort of will, he wrenched his gun up, dead-set on fullfilling his promise of ending Matt's life.

He managed to thump back the hammer, a sound that rang mocking and foreboding in Matt's ears.

But before Biggs had a chance to squeeze the trigger again, a small explosion rocked the little valley, and a fraction of a second later, a bullet from Luke's rifle found its target in his back. The powerful impact sent the outlaw staggering forward several unsteady paces towards Matt.

With his back still rigidly straight, he dropped to his knees. His right hand opened and the colt toppled out. It fell into the dirt at his feet with a dull thud.

Biggs' enormous barrel chest heaved. The muscles of his disfigured face went into a spasm. His eyes became fixed and glazed. The last breath bubbled in his throat and bright red blood sprayed from his lips as he opened his mouth to utter his final words.

"Damn...you...to hell, Dillon..."

Then he pitched forward into the dust--dead.

Matt's gun was still in his hand, shaking slightly with the effort it afforded him to hold it up. A tendril of smoke drifted lazily from the barrel. He was swaying slightly as his dazed mind was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he was, somehow, still alive. The breath left him in a shuddering exhalation and his gaze moved to where Biggs lay.

The outlaw was face-down on the ground, one arm pinned underneath him. The other hand had fallen away from the chest wound and was now stretched out beside him. It was covered with blood, the bright red in stark contrast with the whiteness of the sundrenched ground.

Matt could see that the back of Biggs' shirt was entirely crimson, the huge, gaping hole between his shoulder blades still seeping blood. It was draining away into the hard earth where it mingled with the dust, turning into a paste.

"RORY!"

Millie's sudden cry echoed unnaturally loud across the expanse of the yard. Clutching Carrie tightly against her with one hand, she used the other to lift her long skirts off her feet as she began to rush across the yard towards the little boy.

Looking frightened and lost, Rory was still sitting on his backside in the dust, only a few feet away from the outlaw. His face was ashen, his eyes, wide and unmoving, were fixed on the body of Dan Biggs.

Moments later, Millie dropped to her knees beside him.

"Oh, Rory!" she sobbed as she set Carrie down so that she could gather the petrified little boy into her arms. For a while, her soothing murmurings, interrupted by the occasional sob, were the only sounds heard in the hushed yard.

Then the heavy crunch of booted feet against hard-packed earth sounded as Luke, the rifle still up and ready before him, emerged from behind the barn to cross over to where Millie knelt. After quickly assuring himself that the little boy was unharmed, he turned his gaze to the body of Biggs.

The outlaw's mouth was open and so were his eyes. Almost black, the eyes stared sightlessly up at the bright blue sky they would never see again. Luke raised his head and locked gazes with Matt.

He shook his head slowly.

It was over. Dan Biggs was dead. The outlaw had terrorized his last victim.

Matt let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding. His throat felt painfully dry and he swallowed thickly, wishing for a cool drink of water.

As his overwhelmed body began to relax a little, his legs suddenly felt weak. His hand, still holding the colt dropped to his side and his body sagged with the exhalation of a weary breath. He was acutely aware of the dull throb in his shoulder wound--an ache, he, no doubt, would have to live with for weeks, maybe even months to come. He felt the thumping of his pulse in his injured wrist, felt the warm, slick blood tracking in sticky slivers across the top of his hand and down his fingers from where it dripped to the ground in thick, crimson droplets. The gun suddenly felt heavy in his grasp and on their own accord, his fingers opened, allowing the blood-smeared colt to drop into the dust at his feet.

From a good twenty-five yards away, standing in front of the porch steps, Kitty had been forced to helplessly watch the entire, frightening scene unfold. Now as she finally realized that it was over and that Matt was miraculously still alive, her legs suddenly seemed to take on a life of their own, and, without conscious thought, she found herself hurrying towards him--towards the man she loved.

Her unexpected move seemed to rouse Chester from his stunned stupor.

"Wait up!" he exclaimed as he quickly fell into step alongside her.

The rustle of their hurried footfall registered vaguely in Matt's mind and he slowly lifted his head.

It was Kitty who reached him first.

Her step slowed and then she stopped short. For the fraction of a second, she hesitated, quickly taking in his bloody wrist, assuring herself it was the only injury he had sustained. Then her gaze settled on his exhausted face. Sunlight glistened brightly on his sweat-laced features, his dark hair hanging damp and ragged over his brow.

Their eyes met.

"Matt?"

The hesitantly spoken word was both, question and relief, and suddenly, she couldn't help herself. Oblivious to his rather unsteady footing, she flung herself at him.

"Oh, Matt," she sobbed as she melted into the warm comfort of his body, "I was so scared--"

The jolt, as Kitty threw herself at him, induced an unexpected flare of pain in his shoulder. Matt's face scrunched up and he hitched his breath to bite back a groan. Not wanting her to notice, he steadied himself the best he could and brought his hand up to hold her head tightly against his chest.

The terrible apprehension that had lain heavy on Kitty's heart was slowly ebbing from her body as she rested her cheek against the broad planes of his chest, the steady beat of his heart a welcome resonance in her ear.

"I know," he murmured softly as he bowed his head and buried his face in her hair, "but it's over now. It's all over, Kitty."

Kitty nodded into his chest, a silent prayer of profound gratitude rising from her heart. And then, suddenly, the sheer exhaustion and stress of the last week came to an emotional head. Everything she'd endured, she'd gone through, all the worry and fear she'd felt caused her self-control to falter and the tears came. They were tears of gratitude and relief. They were flowing freely now and she didn't bother holding them back as they tracked wetly across his shirt and chest.

"Sshh," Matt comforted her as his broad hand soothingly caressed the back of her head, "it's all right."

Closing his eyes, he shut out the world around him, and--for a moment--it was only the two of them standing in the middle of the sunlit farm yard. He reveled in the sensation of her warmth, in the comfortingly familiar scent of her hair. It smelled as he had always known it to smell--a delicate mingling of soap and honeysuckle.

Their shadows, painted midnight black onto the sepia-colored earth were growing longer, pointing sharply to the east as the afternoon sun continued to slowly inch towards the west. A soft, warm breeze had sprung up and was gently playing with her fiery tresses, its welcome touch cooling his sweaty brow and rustling the leaves of the grand cottonwood tree.

For a long, blessed moment neither one moved as they simply stood in each other's embrace, coming to terms with the fact that the ordeal was finally and truly over. Slowly, gradually, their bodies began to relax, their breathing and heartbeats becoming attuned. He sighed softly as he continued to hold her close, heedless of the pair of brown eyes beside him that pretended not to be watching.

They were oblivious to the crunch of feet on sandy soil as Luke and Millie came walking over from the barn to join the couple in the middle of the sun-washed yard.

It wasn't until Luke carefully cleared his throat that Matt became aware of the five curious pairs of eyes on him and Kitty. He lifted his face to glance over her head.

His gaze met Luke's who was holding a still pale looking Rory in one arm, his rifle in the other. The older man's face held no more traces of its earlier tension. It was calm, almost serene. The face of an experienced lawman who had learned a long time ago to quickly put things behind him when they were done and over. His steel-gray eyes--though half shaded by the brim of his worn slouch hat--regarded the young Marshal pleased.

Matt swallowed and then nodded once.

"Thanks, Crandall," he said hoarsely.

One simple word, spoken straight from the bottom of his heart--yet it seemed so inadequate. Luke had saved his life now twice in the course of the last week, and Matt knew that no amount of words would ever be enough to express the gratitude he felt for the man before him. Luke Crandall was one of the finest men he had ever met--a man he was proud to call his friend.

The ex-lawman responded with a curt nod of his own.

"Anytime, Dillon," he said and then, a slight smile curving beneath his droopy salt-and-pepper mustache, added, "just don't make it a habit."

Matt's voice was strained as he responded, but a ghost of a smile flickered across his face.

"I can't make you any promises there," he replied, his arm still across Kitty's shoulder, holding her close, "but I'll sure try--"

Luke's eyes strayed from Matt's face down to his bloody shirt and his expression suddenly grew concerned.

"Say," he said, nodding with his head at the bright red stain that had spread on Matt's shirtfront, "that shoulder of yours sure don't look so good."

Millie nodded in agreement and then stepped closer, a still somewhat subdued Carrie in her arms. The little girl had one small, pudgy hand wrapped around the back of her aunt's neck and the thumb of the other in her mouth.

The ex-Sheriff's wife took one good look and then tutted with disapproval.

"Oh, Marshal," she chided him gently through still teary, green eyes, "now see what you've done--you've busted open those stitches. I wonder what Doc Adams will say to that--"

_Well, I don't_, were Matt's weary thoughts, but he refrained from voicing them aloud.

At her aunt's words, Carrie yanked her thumb from her mouth.

"Marsal, boo-boo," she observed fittingly as she pointed at Matt's blood-stained shirt. She regarded her big friend inquiringly from big, green eyes, wondering why he wasn't crying. Boo-boos hurt and usually made one cry--she knew that from experience.

Her remark earned her benign smiles from the grown-ups and even Matt managed to spread a tired smile.

"Yeah, boo-boo," he muttered with a quick glance at his shoulder, at the same time seriously wondering what Doc _would_ have to say when he saw it. Whatever is was--Matt already had a feeling he wasn't going to like it very much.

Drawing slightly away, Kitty now glanced up at him through wet lashes. She could plainly see that Matt had exceeded his physical limit a long time ago. He still had a lot of healing to do and he couldn't do that standing out here in the yard.

"Let's see about gettin' you back inside, cowboy," she said softly as she sniffed the last of her tears away, "Millie's right, that shoulder of yours definitely needs some doctoring."

Matt looked down at her, the weary weight of exhaustion reflected in his eyes. He nodded in acceptance, secretly looking forward to being able to stretch out again on the bed he had been so eager to leave only a few short hours ago. But he wisely kept his thoughts to himself.

"All right," he said agreeably, "I'm afraid I might need a hand though--"

He glanced over at Chester who was busy brushing dust and grit from the Marshal's .45.

At Matt's words, he looked up.

"Here, let me give you a hand there, Mister Dillon," he offered immediately as he shoved the colt in his belt and stepped up, "just--just lean yourself on my shoulder here an' we'll get you back inside."

Gladly accepting the offer, Matt braced his right hand on his assistant's shoulder.

Right away, Chester could feel the tremors of exhaustion in the Marshal's constricted muscles as he took a first, unsteady step. Slowly, with Kitty, Luke and Millie following, Matt made his way back to the house.

Around them, the birds had resumed their song. The colorful string of laundry that was stretched out between two poles on the side of the house was swaying softly in the breeze. The chickens had begun to reclaim the yard, scratching and pecking at the dusty soil. The tabby cat was once again sitting on the porch steps, licking her paws.

Nothing would have hinted at the terrible events that had taken place only a few short minutes ago, were it not for the gruesome reminder of Dan Biggs' body lying face-down in the shadow of the barn.

_to be continued..._


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

_x_

His hip propped on the edge of the leather-covered exam table, his right forearm draped casually across his thigh, Matt watched with idle curiosity as Doc's sharp scissors carefully cut through the thick, protective wrapping of gauze that covered his left shoulder. Up to now, he really hadn't had a chance to get a good look at his injury, but he already knew that it wasn't going to be a very pretty sight.

Done, Doc laid the curved-tip scissors aside. A broad ray of dust-speckled, morning sunlight slanted through the window panes and caught the shiny metal, reflecting off it in a bright flash of light.

He adjusted the spectacles on his nose.

"Well, let's see what we got here," he muttered, more to himself than to Matt.

The dry, cracked leather of the worn piece of furniture Matt was perched on, squeaked ominously as he shifted his six foot and a half frame uncomfortably when the physician's experienced fingers began to push and prod at the still somewhat tender scar to check on its progress.

It was all he had to show for the ugly gunshot wound that had very nearly killed him almost four weeks ago--a puckered, purplish-pink four-inch scar, marring the smoothness of the skin on his left shoulder. With luck, the scar would eventually fade to a pale silver, but the puckering would be with him for life. It was a good thing he wasn't vain, Matt thought, his latest scar just another grim addition to the numerous others he already bore--most of them testament to the many attempts on his life in his four, short years as the Marshal of Dodge City.

Matt glanced down at his body. It had changed little during his enforced idleness; broad-shouldered and broad-chested, he was every inch as powerful as ever. The tan embedded in his arms had faded a bit, the normally iron hard muscles of his left arm had lost just a little tone, but there was nothing a little exercise wouldn't quickly put right. His gaze dropped to his left hand that was lying loosely in his lap, and he experimentally flexed its fingers. Most of the feeling had returned by now and, though the hand was still lacking some of its former strength, he was able to grasp objects and hold on to them without too much trouble.

Yes, there was no doubt--he was definitely more than ready to return to work.

Matt's eyes tracked back to Doc and he suddenly realized that the physician hadn't said a single word since he had started his examination. He cleared his throat.

"Well?" he wondered, hoping to coax a comment of some sort from the older man.

The doctor's bushy brows rose slightly at the obvious edge of impatience in the lawman's query, but he didn't bother looking up.

"Well--what?" he prompted unperturbed as he continued to closely examine the fresh stitches he had put into Matt's shoulder three weeks ago after his second and final encounter with Dan Biggs.

Matt raised a single brow.

"Well, what do you think?"

Doc still didn't look up--instead, he moved his face even closer to Matt's shoulder and began to gently check each of the stitches in turn to make sure they hadn't loosened too much.

"Think about what?" he muttered absently, too absorbed in his task to pay much attention to what Matt was saying.

Matt's face took on an exasperated expression which turned quickly into a rather pained one as the doctor's prodding fingers unexpectedly encountered a particularly tender spot. Instinctively, the Marshal hitched his breath, causing Doc to stop what he was doing and finally glance up at him over the rims of his wire-rimmed spectacles.

"The shoulder, Doc," explained Matt, determined to remain patient, "don't you think it's healed up pretty good by now?"

It had been almost three weeks since he had confronted and shot Dan Biggs out at the Crandall's farm. Thanks to Kitty and Chester, he had gotten plenty of rest during the time that had followed, giving him a chance to recover from his injuries. He was feeling fine and was more than ready to return to doing his job--all he had to do now was convince Doc of that.

Satisfied at last, the doctor straightened away and pulled the spectacles off with slow and measured movement. Sucking on a tooth, he nodded agreeably as he began to carefully fold them.

"Oh. Oh, yes, by golly, it sure has," he agreed. Then he raised his head and looked Matt straight in the eye. "Now that you've stopped bustin' open that incision an' gave it a chance to heal."

Matt's face twitched slightly but he was smart enough to ignore the doctor's last remark.

"Good," he declared satisfied instead, "I s'pose that means I can go back to work then."

If Matt had learned from previous experiences, he might have realized that that had not been the wisest thing to say. Nothing he might have said would have ensured better to get the physician's dander up, right then.

Taken by surprise, Doc blinked, then bristled.

"Oh, no" he groused, "now you just hold on there, Marshal...I didn't say anythin' about that!"

He shoved the spectacles back into their case with a little more vigor than intended and replaced them to his vest pocket.

Right away, a frown began to crease Matt's forehead.

"Now wait a minute," he said as he propped his good hand on his thigh and leaned forward to look his friend in the eye, "you just said yourself that it's all healed up--"

Doc pursed his lip, rounded a fingertip inside his ear and nodded.

"That's what I said," he admitted, nodding and then paused briefly before leveling his now clearly irate glare on the lawman, "but what I_didn't_ say was that you could go back to work!"

Matt's face darkened, incensed by his friend's words and tone alike. He drew a deep breath, not ready to back down just yet.

"Now look here, Doc," he began to argue, but the doctor, already knowing all too well what was about to come, didn't give him a chance to finish.

"No...now you look here, Mister Marshal," he groused as he began to repeatedly stab a finger at his friend's bare chest, "I already told you once before, an' now I'm tellin' you again--you're not goin' back to work until I say so!"

Disgruntled, he dragged a hand across his mustache, adding, "an' that's my final word!"

He harrumphed loudly, to lend emphasis to his words and then shuffled off to the little supply cabinet which stood across the room.

Up to now, Kitty had remained silent. Sitting comfortably in the chair beside Doc's rickety, old roll-top desk, she had been content to sip on a cup of coffee while waiting for the physician to finish his examination of the Marshal. Attired in a form-fitting, low-cut, violet dress, embroidered with lavender lace and matching hat, she looked both, elegant and poised. A single amethyst stone hung suspended from a delicate silver chain around her neck, drawing attention to the low-cut bodice of her snug gown.

Matt 's attempt at convincing the doctor to pronounce him fit for duty hadn't come as too much of a surprise to her; for the last two days, it had been the prime subject of numerous of their conversations.

"Matt, Doc's right, you know," she now spoke up as she set the cup down into the only available spot on the paper-strewn desk, "I think it's too soon for you to go out there and start arresting people again."

At her words, Doc's head appeared above the glass door of the cabinet. He ran a swift hand across the bristles of his mustache and nodded curtly in approval of her support.

"Thank you, Kitty."

Matt huffed out a resigned breath in response, prompting Doc to glance at him.

"Golly, Matt...I sure don't understand why you're so eager to get back out there an' have folks take shots at you again," he said with a tug at his earlobe, "I think Chester's doin' a fine job keepin' things in line--there hasn't been a single shootin' all week."

Matt pressed his lips together in annoyance. He could argue the point, but he knew from experience that Doc was persistent and usually ended up having the last word anyway. The fact, that Kitty suddenly seemed to be siding with him, didn't help matters either. He was well aware that they both had his best interest at heart--but still, the knowledge wasn't making it any easier.

He laced a hand through his dark curls, longer now than he normally liked them and made himself a mental note that a visit to Teeter's was definitely in order as soon as possible.

"Yeah, well," he grumbled dejectedly, watching as Kitty rose to her feet and came over to join him, "the next thing you two are probably gonna tell me is I oughtta have him keep my badge and find myself a new job--"

Kitty cocked her head and eyed Matt hopefully.

"Would you?"

Her words immediately elicited a scowl from him.

"Now wait a minute, Kitty--" he began to object, but the pretty redhead quickly placed a soothing hand on his forearm before he had a chance to say anything else.

"Now don't get all upset," she calmed him, her pretty blue eyes twinkling playfully, "I was just having a little fun."

Matt looked on doubtfully.

His expression wasn't lost on Doc. Figuring that a change of subject was probably in order, he now suggested, "say, Matt, I got an idea--why don't you take Kitty here an' go an' do a little fishin'? Get outta town for a little while."

Not exactly what Matt had in mind.

"Doc...I took Kitty fishin' three days ago," he grumbled in reply, watching the older man approach with an alarmingly large handful of gauze and bandages.

Kitty arched an eyebrow, smiling sweetly as her fingers idly toyed with the polished rosewood grip of her parasol.

"Well, I wouldn't mind goin' again--"

Matt sighed deeply and Doc dropped his pile of bandages onto the exam table.

"All right," the doctor now suggested undaunted as he began to apply the gauze to Matt's shoulder with experienced fingers, "how about you take her on a picnic then? I'll let you have my buggy."

But that wasn't what Matt had in mind either. Feeling himself growing annoyed, he glared.

"Look, I don't wanna go on a picnic an' I don't want your buggy. All I want is go back to work!"

Doc glanced at him with a clear lack of compassion.

"Well that's too bad," he said unmoved, giving the bandage a little tug for good measure--an action that elicited a flinch from the lawman. "What I said still goes."

He picked up the piece of cotton material he had brought along, folded it into a triangle and knotted two ends together.

"Go ahead, you can put your shirt back on," he then instructed with a nod at the light-blue garment, lying wrinkled-up beside Matt.

The lawman eyed the newly-made sling in Doc's hand wearily.

"Do I still have to wear this thing?" he complained as he began to carefully ease his left arm into the cool, rough fabric of his shirt sleeve--a task, he was mastering with ease now.

Doc gave a curt nod. "You betcha."

He reached behind Matt and pulled the shirt across the lawman's broad back so that he could slip his other arm inside.

"There--now just get your arm in that sling an' keep it there," he then said gruffly as he slipped the contraption over the Marshal's head before he had a chance to protest.

With a resigned tightening of his lips, Matt obliged and carefully eased his left forearm into the sling. Resentfully, he glanced down at his arm, unable to understand why the doctor still insisted on him wearing it pinned against his chest.

"I'll try," he grumbled, not too happy with the prospect of remaining one-armed for a little longer.

Right away, a frown furrowed the physician's forehead.

"You better do a little more than just try," he warned as he scooped up the soiled bandages from the table, dropping them into a linen sack.

"Don't worry, Doc," said Kitty with a stern sideglance at Matt who was presently engaged in the endeavor of buttoning up his shirt, "between you and me and Chester, we should be able to keep an eye on him."

Her words brought an instant flash of disgruntled irritation to Matt's eyes; someone to keep an eye on him was the last thing he needed right now. He was about to point that out when his attention was drawn to the open window. The sound of multiple feet clattering outside on the wooden stairs drifted into the office, and moments later the door swung inwards to reveal the shadowed forms of several people. Silhouetted by an aura of bright sunlight, a man stood in the doorway, trapping a cluster of dust motes in a beam of mustard gold.

"Mornin' there, Dillon...Kitty...Doc."

A toothpick bopping lazily in the corner of his mouth, a friendly grin stretching lips--half-hidden by a big, droopy mustache, Luke Crandall stepped out of the bright morning light into the cooler and dimmer confines of the doctor's office. He held the door for his wife and the children to step inside and then took off his old slouch hat to run a hand over the top of an unruly mop of brown hair, liberally streaked with gray.

Matt eased himself off the edge of the exam table and the floor boards creaked in response as his full weight settled on his booted feet.

"Hello, Crandall," he returned the greeting and then took a step forward to shake the other's hand. But before he had a chance to do so, something small suddenly emerged from behind the ex-Sheriff's legs.

"Marsal!" declared Carry with a delighted squeal. Her bare little feet pattered across the plank flooring as she dashed across the room, her reddish curls bouncing in rhythm.

Matt had barely time to get down on his haunches and brace himself before she landed in his arms.

"Well, hello, there, honey," he welcomed her as she threw her chubby arms around his neck and pressed a wet kiss on his cheek. Still not quite accustomed to such outright declaration of affection, Matt felt the color rush to his face. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat when he found himself looking up into five bemused pairs of eyes.

"My gracious, Marshal," exclaimed Millie pleased after quickly looking the lawman over, "I hope you don't think me too bold if I say that you're looking quite a bit better than the last time I saw you."

Matt glanced up at the older woman. Fine laugh lines crinkled at the corners of deep, sea-green eyes, shining brightly with love and compassion in a heart-shaped face. Her smile--as always--was warm, straightforward.

Holding on to Carrie, who had perched herself somewhat wobbly on his knee, Matt returned the smile.

"Well, let me tell ya," he said, "I sure feel a lot better, too."

"Say," Luke now spoke up as he wagged his thumb towards the door, "we just ran into Chester outside. He told us where to find you. Rory's got something he wanted to return to you."

Encouraged by a gentle nudge form his uncle, the little boy now stepped forward. His hand disappeared in one of the deep, bulging pockets of his trousers as if looking for something.

"Here Marshal," he said as his hand emerged seconds later, "I brought this back for ya. I took good care of it--see? I even polished it all up for you."

He held out his small hand, palm-up and Matt could see his badge resting in it. A smile tugged at his lips as he glanced at it. It was indeed very well cleaned, the polished metal gleaming brightly in the morning sunlight.

"Well, thanks, Rory," he said appreciatively as he reached out to accept the badge, "you sure did a mighty fine, job."

At the praise, the little boy's face lit up instantly and he beamed at the tall lawman with his gap-toothed smile.

"Anytime it needs cleanin', Marshal just let me know."

His head, crowned by a round, hard-topped hat, bobbed up and down earnestly to lend his words meaning.

"I'll keep that in mind," replied Matt as he pinned the badge to the left side of his shirt while Carrie watched curiously.

She poked a pudgy finger at it.

"Siny Tar!" the little girl babbled happily, bouncing on the Marshal's knee.

"Yeah, it sure's shiny all right," agreed Matt chuckling, "I'll say that much."

Something compelled him to lift his gaze and his eyes caught Kitty's. There was a tender smile on her lips. He wasn't quite sure how to describe the expression in her eyes, but it was nothing new to him; he had seen it many times before--usually when she watched him interact with children.

Suddenly feeling a little self-conscious, he flashed her a quick smile.

"So, how's that shoulder of yours doin'?" Luke now wondered as he pointed at the sling, "you're back to workin' yet?"

Matt resisted the urge to roll his eyes--but just barely.

"No, not as long as Doc has his say," he disclosed, now looking and sounding clearly disgruntled again.

The remark earned him a scowl from Millie. One hand perched on her hip, she shook her head in disapproval.

"Now, Marshal, you listen to Doc Adams here," she chided as she wagged a finger at him, "after all--he knows what's best for you. You hear me?"

Now it was one thing to disagree with Doc, but it was an entirely different matter to disagree with Millie Crandall. One week under her care had taught Matt that the ex-lawman's wife was not to be contradicted.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied meekly--much to Doc's amusement.

The physician jammed one hand down into the pocket of his baggy trousers. His eyes were twinkling merrily as he brushed the other hand swiftly across his mustache.

"Well, thank you for the support, Millie," he declared with a wink as the two eyed each other sideways.

Returning the wink, Millie nodded resolutely, a smile quirking the corners of her mouth

"You're most welcome, Doc."

After all, she had her experience in dealing with stubborn lawmen. Her eyes tracked to the man beside her, watching as he pulled his battered pocket watch from his coat pocket.

"Millie, I think we'd better get goin'," Luke said after quickly glancing at his face, "it's gettin' to be almost nine and we still have lots to do." With a soft click, he snapped the dented cover shut again and replaced the watch to his pocket.

"My goodness," exclaimed Millie surprised, "is it that late already?"

Luke nodded an affirmative, rolling the toothpick from corner of his mouth to the other and then turned to Matt again.

"Matt" he said as he grinned around the toothpick, "don't you forget to pay us a visit now an' then."

"Yes," added Millie, adjusting the colorful shawl around her shoulders, "you know you're always welcome at our house."

"Of course, that goes for you, too, Kitty an' Doc," elaborated Luke with a nod at the two, making sure they wouldn't be left out.

Doc scratched his ear; he, too had grown quite fond of Luke and Millie in the course of the last two weeks.

"Well, that's very kind of you," he said.

"Yes," agreed Kitty smiling, "it sure is."

Placing his hand on Rory's small shoulder, Luke gave it a fatherly clap.

"Well, come on, son...let's go an' see Mr. Jonas...who knows, we might get us some more of those delicious lemon drops--" He paused to quickly glance over at his wife and winked at her, adding, "--if aunt Millie says it's all right, of course."

"Oh, she just might," chuckled Millie, her green eyes twinkling merrily. Then she stooped down and held out her arms. "Come on, Carrie," she coaxed, "say good-bye to Marshal Dillon."

The prospect of lemon drops was too tempting for the little girl to resist.

"Bye-bye, Marsal!" babbled the little girl. She quickly pressed another wet peck onto the lawman's scruffy cheek and then hurriedly scooted off his knee to scamper off into her aunt's waiting arms.

Matt watched smiling as the Crandall's took their leave. In the short time he had known them, he had grown quite close with the ex-Sheriff and his wife, and he was proud to be able to count this fine couple to his small circle of friends.

When the door had closed behind Luke with a soft click of the latch, the Marshal braced his good hand on the edge of the exam table and started to straighten, but he suddenly paused halfway up.

Kitty who had been watching him, noticed it right away--there was no mistaken the ominous dark stain that graced the lawman's left knee.

Although she tried her best to keep a straight face, the pretty redhead wasn't very successful.

Their eyes met and she could barely stifle a laugh. Her hand pressed over her mouth, she fought to control herself.

"Oh, Matt...not again--"

Matt sighed tiredly. "I'm startin' to get used to it."

Confused, Doc's eyes moved back and forth between the two.

"What's the matter with you?" he demanded, "somethin' wrong?"

Matt made a face.

"Never mind, Doc," he grumped as he straightened up to his full height.

Kitty chuckled softly, prompting Matt to trade a meaningful look with her which was half plea, half warning.

Immediately, Doc sensed conspiracy.

"Never mind?" he echoed baffled and then turned to the pretty redhead, hoping to coax an answer from her. "Kitty? What in thunder's he talkin' about?"

Kitty cast a quick, bemused glance at Matt who had begun to tuck the tails of his shirt into the waistband of his pants. She leaned closer towards the doctor, putting her hand to the side of her mouth.

"I don't think I can tell you right now," she said quietly, and then added, after stealing another quick glance at Matt to assure herself he was still distracted, "remind me to tell you later though."

Unfortunately, Matt had overheard her. He expelled a frustrated whuff of air and then turned, his eyes meeting hers again.

"Kitty--" he warned.

The pretty redhead sighed in response.

"Spoilsport--"

Suddenly, the very distinct clomp of uneven footsteps sounded on the stairs outside and moments later, Chester came flying through the door.

"Mister Dillon, Mister Dillon!" he shouted excitedly as he limped into the room, "looky here what I got!" Unable to contain his excitement, he waved a somewhat ruffled-looking letter in the air as he headed straight for the Marshal with three long, limping strides.

He grinned from ear to ear.

"Guess who it's from--"

Matt made a face, at the moment not exactly in the mood for guessing games. He regarded the gangly young man with an air of long-suffering irritation.

"Well, why don't you just tell me since you already seem to know," he grumbled.

Chester grinned sheepishly.

"It's from the War Department in Washington, Mister Dillon," he replied completely unembarrassed, "I betcha it's your paycheck."

The word 'paycheck' immediately got Matt's attention.

"Well, let me see," he said as he plucked the letter from his assistant's hand. Holding the envelope against his stomach with his left, he carefully tore the flap open with his right.

A little awkwardly, he extricated the slip of paper. He recognized it as once as the familiar bank draft he was accustomed to receive monthly.

"About time," he muttered, pleased to see that the amount covered the current, as well as the previous month.

Curiously, Doc sidled closer.

"Finally got paid, huh?"

He glanced up at Matt and ran a quick hand over his mustache, "maybe now you can finally pay your bill."

Matt looked up.

"My bill?"

Doc nodded once.

"That's right, Marshal," he declared, "you owe me exactly twelve dollars and fifty-two cents."

Now Matt was clearly confused.

"Fifty-two cents?"

"Interest, Marshal," the doctor replied calmly, "but I'd be willin' to let that go an' declare myself satisfied with the twelve dollars--seein' that you're one of my best customers."

Matt expelled an annoyed breath, his mind quickly making the necessary adjustments to his shrinking paycheck.

"Mister Dillon?" said Chester.

At the query, the Marshal raised his head.

"Yeah, Chester," he replied wearily, already having a pretty good hunch what was coming next.

"There ain't no hurry, Mister Dillon," said Chester, plucking nervously at the back of his neck,"none at all, but just so's you know--" He lifted his gaze and managed something akin to an apologetic expression, "well,...you haven't paid me in over a month an' I sure could use the money...if you know what I mean."

Matt blew air through his lips.

"Yeah, I know what you mean, Chester."

He glanced down at his check again, quickly doing some more calculating. Without a word, he folded it neatly and stuck it down into the breast pocket of his shirt. Raking a hand through his already rather mussed hair, he glanced down at the redhead beside him, a distinct flicker of resignation in his eyes.

"Ah, Kitty...about that job--"

Kitty raised her brows in open amusement. Hooking her arm into the crook of his elbow, she looked up at him.

"Well, why don't you get Doc's buggy and take me on that picnic," she suggested slyly and then gave him a quick wink that Matt was sure wasn't meant to be seen by anybody else, "maybe we can talk about it then?"

_x_**  
**

**Epilogue**

_x_

"You want any more coffee, Matt?"

His good arm folded behind his head, one booted ankle folded over the other, Matt was relaxing in the shade beneath the leafy bough of a huge cottonwood tree. At Kitty's query, he turned his head in her direction, lifting one lazy eyelid.

"Huh?"

She was standing a short distance away by the smoldering remains of the small cooking fire, holding up an enameled tin coffee pot. In front of her, scattered on a red and white checkered tablecloth, were the sparse remainders of their picnic.

Thanks to Matt's legendary appetite, there weren't too many leftovers in need of re-packing; all of the roasted chicken and potato salad was gone, and so was the apple pie.

"Do you want the last of the coffee?" she repeated smiling.

"No, thanks, Kitty," he declined; he didn't think there was any room left in his stomach for even a small cup of Kitty's brew--even if it was undeniably better than Chester's concoction.

With a grunt, he re-settled the back of his head on his arm and glanced up the sky above. Today, it was a beautiful, bright blue with the occasional, wispy cloud floating by. The warm summer air was alive with the chirping of birds and the lazy buzzing of insects and--at least for the moment, Matt couldn't be more content.

He liked coming out to Miller's Pond. He liked its seclusion and privacy, and he liked the fact that it was close to Dodge. Usually, he didn't get a chance to visit it very often, but this was his and Kitty's second visit this week.

His gaze skimmed the shimmering surface of the water before him. Deep purple shadows hugged the bank, feathering the water with plum-dark threads where tiny ripples rolled to shore. Cat-tails and whisper-thin reeds vied for room among heartier clumps of sawgrass and muskmallow.

He almost wished now that he had brought his fishing pole along to get another try at the enormous catfish that had toyed with him the other day, consistently swallowing his bait but nothing more. He had blamed his shoulder, claiming that fishing one-armed was the reason for his lack of success, but Kitty and Doc had known better, both having had their equally unsuccessful tries at the big old catfish many times before.

A smile touched his lips and he drew a deep breath. The air was fragrant with the sun-dusted scent of the pond--a tangle of brown grass and moss-covered stones. It was a potent scent--rich and dark like the underbelly of a log.

"Matt?"

"Hm?"

He turned his head towards her, watching her stroll over to where he was lying. She had exchanged the pretty violet dress she had worn this morning for a simple fawn-colored skirt, and had matched it with a soft white blouse. The latter, Matt couldn't help but notice with typical male appreciation, was form-fitting, tailored to accentuate the firm swell her breasts; the narrow pinch of her waist.

With graceful poise, Kitty tucked her skirts beneath her and settled down into the soft, fragrant grass beside him.

"You didn't take me out here just so I would tell you about that job," she wondered as she studied his relaxed features. Small patches of sunlight danced across his face as a soft breeze gently moved the leaves and smaller branches of the cottonwood tree, making the five o'clock shadow on his jaw and cheeks glow a brilliant auburn hue.

Matt glanced up at her, squinting against the brightness of the sun at her back.

Her hair was loose today, tumbling free over her shoulders in lustrous waves of fiery silk. He had never told her, but he liked it best when she wore it open. Beneath the gilded glow of the sun, it shone a beautiful, deep shade of coppery-red, highlighted with a multitude of golden threads.

For a moment, he was sorely tempted to reach out and pull her down to him, bury his hand in its silky softness, smell its enticing scent and kiss her deeply, but he could sense that something was on her mind--something of a more serious nature. As a matter of fact, he had been sensing it ever since they had left Dodge this morning in Doc's buggy.

With some effort, he tempered his desire.

"And you didn't come along just so you could tell me," he countered playfully instead, deciding to try a lighter approach first.

Unfortunately, his attitude came across as just a little too smug, his grin as just a little too broad for her taste--and beyond that, she could detect a certain challenge in his tone.

"You seem awful sure about that," wagered Kitty, one delicate eyebrow arched, "what makes you think so? Maybe I was going to tell you--"

Matt rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his good elbow.

He tossed her an engaging grin. "Oh...I got a hunch--"

The pretty redhead cocked her head and eyed him skeptically.

"That's not exactly a lot to go on--"

Matt pursed his lips in response.

"It's enough for me," he replied with a slight shrug of his good shoulder, "I'm a lawman, remember? It part of my job to know when someone's tellin' the truth and when they're lyin'--"

Looking into the depths his deep, blue eyes, Kitty saw the mischievous twinkle there that told her better than to take him serious. But still, his words had touched on something. Something that had been playing at the back of her mind ever since they had left Doc's office this morning.

She stilled, her own playful expression now gone, replaced by a more serious one.

_A lawman.__It had almost been too easy to forget during the course of the last three weeks. Not once during that time did she worry about his safety or his whereabouts, not once did she worry about someone provoking him into a gunfight. Now it all was about to come to an end and things would be just as they had been before. She had known that it wasn't going to last forever. The knowledge filled her with a certain sadness, at the same time making her appreciate this very moment they were sharing all the more. _

"Matt?"

Having sensed the sudden change in her disposition, he regarded her curiously.

"Yeah?"

Above, perched on some hidden branch amongst the dense foliage of the cottonwood tree, a prairie warbler was chirping, its distinct "chek-chek-chek"-call, answered by another of its kind some distance away.

Her gaze rested on her hands a moment longer, then she lifted it to meet his.

"Thank you for today."

Matt looked at her with mild surprise.

"Today?"

Kitty nodded.

"Thank you for taking me out here."

She hesitated briefly and then tilted her head to deliberately hold his eyes. "Matt, I know that it's time for you to go back to doing your job, but I just want you to know that I really enjoyed the last three weeks. It sure was a nice change to wake up in the morning without having to wonder where you are, worrying whether you're safe--I'm gonna miss that."

She swallowed and forced a smile, but her eyes were telling a different story. It was obvious that she was saddened by the admission, and it cut Matt to the very soul.

He regarded her for a long, silent moment, watching as her fingers began to fidget with the lace handkerchief she kept tucked away beneath the edge of her sleeve. He wasn't sure what to say. As much as he had enjoyed the last three weeks, had enjoyed spending the greater part of his days with her, had enjoyed lying next to her every night, he was looking forward to returning to his duties again. He missed his daily routine, missed doing his nightly rounds, simply missed being the Marshal.

He maneuvered himself to a sitting position, propping his back against the rough-textured trunk of the cottonwood.

Her gaze rested on some meaningless spot at the foot of the tree, allowing him a brief moment to study her pretty face. The stark vulnerability was plainly evident beneath the surface. Matt knew that not too many people were allowed to see this side of her.

"Kitty."

Raising her chin, she lifted her gaze. It was soft and apprehensive.

He smiled gently in return.

"Come here."

Using his right arm, he reached out for her and wrapped it about her shoulders, gathering her close.

Willingly, Kitty rested her head against his chest, drinking in the scent of him--the whisper-thin hint of soap that clung to the coarse fabric of his shirt, the sun-warmed fragrance of his hair. Enclosed in his arms, cradled against the broad wall of his chest, she felt infinitely safe and desired. Her own chest rose and fell as she shuttered away a deep breath, and automatically, Matt's arm tightened around her.

He rested his chin on her shoulder and for a while, simply held her.

"It'd be nice if we could simply change things to the way we want them to be, Kitty," he murmured into her hair, "but you an' I, we both know that it doesn't work that way. We have to wait until the time's right."

He fell silent for a moment, reflecting on what he'd just said. Raising his head off her shoulder, he drew slightly away to glance down at her.

"I know that this is hard for you at times an' I wish to God I could make it easier for you, but I can't. I can't even promise you that I'll always be there for you--all I can promise you is that I'll try my hardest an' that I'm yours for as long as you'll have me."

Kitty could feel the resonance of his deep, pleasant baritone beneath her fingers as it rumbled from deep within his chest. She lifted her head to look up at him.

Her eyes were shimmering suspiciously, but the smile that touched her lips--although still somewhat brittle--was genuine. She brought a slender hand up to tenderly touch the side of his face.

"That's all a girl can hope for, cowboy."

Relief and desire struck Matt simultaneously.

He reached out to gently smooth his thumb over her cheek and along her jaw. And suddenly, he couldn't help himself--he wanted her. In fact, he wanted her real bad. After four long weeks of enforced celibacy, his body was hungering for her. Perhaps it was time for a man to get back into the saddle in more ways than one.

Tipping her chin up, he kissed her softly on the mouth. Lightly at first, but his kiss quickly deepened, allowing the emotions and desire nipping at his heart to wash over her in demanding wave after demanding wave.

Kitty melted willingly, opening her mouth beneath the possessive hunger of his kiss. Through the fabric of his shirt, her fingers felt the warmth of his skin, the rapid beat of his heart, the sharp rise and fall of his ribs. Any reservations she might have had spun carelessly away as the heat of his lips ignited warm fire deep within her belly, coaxing her to arch into his embrace.

Suddenly it didn't matter what would happen tomorrow. Kitty was content to know that for a little while longer, things would remain the way they had been for the past three weeks. Entwined in each others arms, their bodies slowly sank down into the sun-warmed softness of the sweet, fragrant grass.

There was no hurry for either one of them to get back to Dodge any time soon.

_x_**  
**

**The End**


End file.
